Revelin
by Elizabeth England
Summary: In a world where he was never defeated by Harry Potter, Voldemort raises his grandson.
1. Chapter 1

Note: For now this is a oneshot, but I am considering turning it into a full-fledged story, if it gets enough reviews or I simply feel like it. :) So if you want to see more, review!

She had been born on a cold October night in 1956. Voldemort had not been there at the time, nor would he have cared to have been. Her mother had named her Ellen, and she had sent Voldemort notice of the birth via owl post. Voldemort had read the letter (he had been in Turkey at the time) and thought, _So. It is a girl_. The only emotion he had felt about the birth was a tinge of annoyance that it had changed his identity. He was now technically a father, and though he didn't care one way or another about the existence of the child itself, it annoyed him that someone else could add to his identity without his express approval. Still, it was what it was. He burned the letter and checked out of the hotel. His next destination was Syria, and he had a meeting at noon he didn't want to miss.

The first time he ever saw his daughter, she was four. He had finally returned from his travels abroad, and was steadily gaining followers and in the off-time experimenting with various types of magic, when the research of a certain spell took him to America—New York City, to be precise.

It was as he was leaving a meeting with an ancient professor that he recalled, rather dimly, that the child lived in New York City. Her mother had written to him rather frostily about a year ago informing him of the move: she had accepted a teaching position there, since there was nothing in England to tie her down—she had said this rather insinuatingly, as if expecting him to come running after her. Voldemort's lip curled. As if he would chase after any woman, no matter how pleasing they had been in bed.

Voldemort had stood at a crossroads in Brooklyn, his hands in the pockets of his robes, debating with himself as to whether or not to visit. Intellectually he knew there was little point in seeing the child. Still, academic curiosity won out. He was curious as to what sort of offspring he had produced. He apparated to the Upper West Side, and a quick spell pointed him in the right direction.

He came upon the pair—mother and daughter—at a nearby playground. He did not want to be noticed by anyone, especially the mother, so he disillusioned himself and observed the child from the shade of a tree.

She was blond, his daughter, with curls and blue eyes like her mother. He noted that facially, however, she more closely resembled him: his nose, his cheekbones, his mouth, and his eyebrows. So this was how he would have looked as a girl. Interesting. He tilted his head to the side, observing her as she built…something…in the sandlot. She shaped the sand with a purpose, quick fingers, quick hands: she obviously had an idea in mind. She appeared bright, at least, but that was to be expected from _his _child.

Not far from the sandlot, her mother sat stiffly on a park bench, apparently trying her best to ignore the man sitting next to her. Voldemort's eyes drifted to the wizard, who was watching his two little girls on the swing set, and Voldemort's lip curled. Revulsion swept through him as he thought of the wizard coming here every day, faithfully bringing his daughters to the park after he was through with whatever menial task he did for a living. Just to think, had Voldemort been somewhat less ambitious, _he _could have found himself doing that every day. Disgusting.

And without so much as another glance at his daughter, he apparated away with a _crack._

That was the only time he ever saw her as a child. Her mother continued to send him letters for a few more years, finally stopping when the girl was seven. The final note frostily informed him that she had 'no intention' of 'ever revealing his paternity' to the child. That was fine with him. After that, the only correspondence he received concerning the girl was a letter from the New York City Academy of Magic. It was an automated, magical pamphlet sent to both the mother and father of admitted children outlining the rules and curriculum of the institution. Voldemort had glanced at it briefly, realized what it was for, and promptly burned it. He had little interest in knowing the girl was attending school, and even less interest in the school itself.

After that, for over a decade, it was as if the girl never existed. He gathered followers, performed several dangerous dark rituals, and grew in deadly prominence till there was not a magical being in Britain who did not know his name, and did not fear to speak it. Most of the time, he never thought of her at all, and when he did it was with a little jolt of unpleasant surprise. _Oh yes. The girl._ The thought of having a daughter always settled on him uncomfortably. It was so terribly _plebian_ to have children, and he might have killed the child but for the thought that she was of Slytherin's bloodline. To go out of his way to kill a descendant of Salazar Slytherin, when it could serve no obvious strategic purpose, seemed like a waste of magical blood. To simply ignore her existence was a better solution.

And ignore her he did. He assumed she grew and lived, unknowing of her parentage, in New York City still, although he supposed she could be in Timbuktu and he would never know. He couldn't bring himself to care. He never sought her out, never would have, and indeed, in all likelihood would have never seen her again had she not found him herself.

It happened on a cold January night in 1980, when the Death Eater Mulciber came trembling before Lord Voldemort. Voldemort stared down at him with barely-concealed loathing. Mulciber had been revealed as a Death Eater only two weeks ago, and it was only by claiming enchantment that he had managed to escape Azkaban. His face had been splashed all across the British newspapers, and though he remained a free man, since he was no longer anonymous and trusted, his value to Voldemort had plummeted.

"My lord," said Mulciber, kissing the hem of Voldemort's robe, "Someone has approached me requesting to see you."

Oh? Considering Mulciber's recent fame, it was probably an Auror or some Order of the Phoenix lackey in disguise, hoping to kill him off. Voldemort was about to tell Mulciber so, scathingly, when the man hurried on:

"She's an American, my lord. A woman who says her name is Ellen. And she's pregnant."

Voldemort closed his mouth and stilled, letting the words wash over him. An American named Ellen, come looking for him. And pregnant. This could be interesting. He leaned back in his chair thoughtfully.

His silence apparently terrified Mulciber, for he squeaked, "My lord, I didn't tell her I was going to meet you or gave any indication I knew you at all! I can return to my manor and have her sent away! She's a rather ragged-looking thing—"

"_No_," said Voldemort sharply, his red eyes falling on Mulciber, ire rising in him. "No," he said more quietly. "Bring her here. Immediately."

Mulciber stared up at Voldemort in blatant surprise. Then he scrambled back away, bowed low, and disapparated with a _crack_. Voldemort gazed blankly at the spot he had disappeared from, his thoughts whirring, a rather uncomfortable feeling beginning to bloom in his chest.

Ellen, an American woman seeking him. It had to be she. Why had she come? What did she want? Voldemort had never imagined her, upon discovering her identity, wishing to see him.

And pregnant? That was another thought that settled uncomfortably on Voldemort's shoulders. Here it was again—another identity bestowed upon him that he did not want. _Grandfather_. Again, so plebian, and so terribly _old_. He was not yet sixty. Some wizards hadn't even had their first child by his age, and the little brat had gone and made him a grandfather, and Voldemort didn't even know by whom. That was the important question. Who was the father? Voldemort would kill the girl if she had married a mudblood.

With a _crack_ Mulciber reappeared, clutching by the arm a young, heavily-pregnant woman with blond hair. Voldemort took one look at her and turned to Mulciber. "Leave," he said, in clipped tones, "_Now_."

His voice brooked no argument. Mulciber gave the girl a rather pitying glance before disapparating with a _crack_. Once he was gone, Voldemort's red eyes settled on his daughter, and he took in her adult appearance for the first time.

Gone was the lively little girl he had watched in the park. She had been incredibly beautiful some time ago, that much he could tell, but some tragedy had snatched her beauty away. She was looking Gaunt, and in more ways than one. It was remarkable, suddenly, how his daughter suddenly resembled his mother. Voldemort had seen Merope Riddle when she was pregnant in Borgin's memory, and looking at the woman in front of him, Voldemort saw her again now. Long blond hair, once lustrous and curly, hung lank and limp down her back. Her arms and legs were skinny, her skin sallow, in the way only hungry peoples' were. The fattest part of her was her stomach, which was distended outwards in the late stages of pregnancy. Looking at her, Voldemort felt a strange emotion, one that, not often experiencing emotions, he couldn't name. It compelled him to speak gently to her.

In Parseltongue he asked, "_What happened?"_

She looked up at him, and in her dark blue eyes he espied exhaustion and anxiety. "_You know who I am?"_

"_Are you not my daughter?"_

She bit the inside of her cheek, and to his horror, he saw her eyes glisten with tears. Barely holding them back, she stammered out in trembling Parseltongue, "_H-how c-come no one ever told me?"_

Voldemort debated how to answer that. "_It was your mother's decision," _he said at last. Which was true. Again, he asked, _"What happened to you? Why are you here?"_

She choked back a sob. Voldemort tried not to flinch. "_H-he left me_," she gasped out, a tear trickling down her cheek. "_H-he t-took everything—all our money, all our valuables, our apartment. I have n-nothing. I h-had already q-quit my job b-because of the baby, a-and they w-wouldn't h-hire me back."_

That strange emotion reared its head again, and Voldemort looked at her oddly. _"Why?"_ Why did he abandon you? Why wouldn't they hire you back? Why didn't you kill them for treating you this way?

"_Because of you!" _she choked out. _"I didn't know! Mother didn't tell me, even as she was dying! I had never been outside New York City, and I had never gone to a zoo, so I had never encountered a snake, and I didn't know!"_ The last part came out as a desperate wail. _"Then I went to Central Park with my husband, and there had been a snake escaped from the local m-muggle zoo, and it was there, and I spoke to it without thinking. My husband saw. He knew who I was then, as did I, and he panicked, claimed that I had lied to him, that I had tricked him. He left me there at the park, and I went back to our building, but the manager wouldn't let me in. Everything we had had we had had in both our names, and by the time I got home he had transferred the deed to the apartment and all our m-money, including everything I inherited from Mother, into his name. I had nothing. I tried to go to my friends, but he had told them who I was, and they wouldn't touch me. They treated me like something diseased._

"_I've lived on the streets of Manhattan for months, searching for a job, but no one will take ona pregnant lady. In the end, I decided to find you. I sold the necklace my mother gave me to afford a portkey ticket here. I've been searching for you since. You are all I have left." _She looked up at him then, pleadingly.

It was similar, too similar, to what had happened Merope Riddle. Voldemort rifled through his daughter's memories, his disgust growing every minute, though he wasn't sure who he was disgusted with—her or her friends. Possibly both. He lingered for a moment on the memory of her pathetic pureblood husband, screaming at her, claiming she had tricked him, and something cold and terrible settled in Voldemort's chest—a desire for vengeance. He coldly memorized the man's face.

He retreated from his daughter's mind and considered her for a moment. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do with her, so for the time being he thought it prudent to keep her alive till he could think of an appropriate use. Voldemort turned his head to the side. "Missy!"

With a crack, a pathetic-looking house-elf appeared, bowing low and trembling before Voldemort. "Y-yes, M-master?"

"Guide Mrs. Reid to our secluded guest quarters, have her cleaned, fed, and appropriate clothes requisitioned for her. A healer will come to examine her in the interim."

The elf looked curious but knew better than to ask anything. "Y-yes, M-master." It bowed low again, then scampered to his daughter's side, grabbing her arm. "Missus is to come with me now."

Voldemort had only a brief glimpse of his daughter's incredulous expression before she and the elf disappeared with a _crack_.

After she had left, Voldemort sent one of his healers, Jameson, to examine her, and after that settled back into his chair, considering this unexpected turn of events.

He would admit it unsettled him, having her in his house, and Voldemort loathed being unsettled. Yet at the same time, the feeling grew stronger and stronger that she ought to be here. Seeing her was like seeing his own mother walking the Earth again, and with her story being so similar to Merope's, Voldemort couldn't banish the powerful sense of déjà vu. The whole ordeal felt somewhat surreal. He considered the possible implications of her arrival for a full two hours, until Jameson came back with his report.

"What is her health like?" Voldemort demanded softly.

Jameson gulped. "M-my lord, she is very ill. She is suffering from Cogeria, a rather rare prenatal complication."

A pause. "Explain." His voice was dangerous.

Jameson swallowed. When he spoke again, his voice was a bit higher than usual. "M-my lord, Cogeria is a p-prenatal condition o-ccassion-ally seen in old f-family lines. It is g-generally s-sparked by s-some t-trauma or t-tragedy. It causes the w-witch to f-fatigue exp-p-onentially. I-it—"

Voldemort held up his hand, and Jameson felt silent immediately.

"Is it fatal?"

If possible, Jameson looked more terrified than ever. "It c-can be," he squeaked, "It depends on the labor. If labor is d-difficult, it could drain whatever energy she has l-left—"

Voldemort held up his hand again, and Jameson fell silent immediately.

"What can be done to prevent this?"

Jameson licked his lips nervously. "M-my l-lord," he stammered, "th-there is little that c-can be done—" at Voldemort's expression, he hurried on—"ex-x-cept p-perhaps b-bed r-rest, m-my l-lord!"

Voldemort considered him for a moment. Could this be what had killed his mother? If it had been, then…_No_. He shook himself of those thoughts. There was no point in pondering the past. He dismissed Jameson with a well-delivered threat of what exactly would happen to him should the girl die.

Days passed. Voldemort attempted to function as normal, but his daughter's presence hovered constantly at the back of his mind, like an irritating tick. Ignoring her was well and fine when she was halfway across the world. He found it was a bit more difficult to manage when she was in his own house.

Still, he made no attempt to visit her, determined at least to pretend she had no effect on him. All he knew of her was what Jameson told him—she had been relegated to constant bed-rest. She was stable, but still very weak. She was having a hard time keeping down food, so it was a constant battle to maintain her strength. She had been weak and starving for too long, her body shuttling all of the nutrients to her baby. In short, she had waited too long to seek out her father.

She was going to die.

Voldemort knew this. It was fate, a circular destiny. Voldemort's daughter would die the same way Voldemort's mother had. It was ironic and intriguing, and as the days passed, he found himself more and more intrigued and anxious about the child Fate was bringing into his life.

He suspected it would be a boy.

He was right. Around 11 in the evening on February 1st, Jameson came to Voldemort and told him his daughter had gone into labor. The labor lasted almost thirteen hours, till at last around midday, on February 2nd, Candlemas, the mid-most day of winter, Voldemort's daughter gave birth to a son. An hour later, she died.

Voldemort stood beside her body, staring down at it with unblinking red eyes. He could practically feel the warmth fading from her. Her hair was plastered to her scalp with already cold sweat. Her sheets lay rumpled around her, messy and sweaty and bloody. Even in death she looked exhausted and troubled, defeated even. Voldemort stared at her and thought that this must have been what his mother had looked like when she had died.

In the corner of the room, Jameson knelt on the floor, trembling. Voldemort turned to him, wand raised. It didn't matter that this death was surely the will of Fate—Jameson had failed him. Voldemort made his death quick and painless—an _Avada Kedavra_, before the man had a chance to react.

The baby had cried when it was born, but it had quieted now, and was staring up at him with solemn dark eyes. It looked like Voldemort, much as his daughter had, before her abandonment. He already had hints of high cheekbones and what had once been Voldemort's long, aristocratic nose. Even as a baby, his build was long and thin, as Voldemort's. The only great difference in their appearance seemed to be their hair. Voldemort's, at that age, had been black. The boy's was a glossy chestnut.

Voldemort ran a long finger down the boy's cheek. His heart was racing as he stared at the boy, excitement thrumming through his veins. Destiny had always marked his life, had always guided him.

Destiny had given him this child.

He knew that. His pulse began to race as he thought of it. He knew it because there was no other possible way in which he would have considered the child's birth anything but a hindrance. Destiny could have given him no clearer message of the worth of the babe than to make his birth parallel Voldemort's own. A child of Slytherin's line, abandoned by his father before birth, abandoned by his mother at birth, so similar…Fate had given him this child for a reason, and Voldemort just had to find out what it was. Voldemort traced the boy's face, his nostrils flaring, his chest heaving with excitement. A soaring feeling swept through him, like euphoria, and he almost laughed aloud, right there next to his daughter's body, his poor, broken daughter, the daughter whose sole purpose in life was to give birth to _this _child, this _gift_ from Fate…

He summoned the house-elves. He instructed them to bury his daughter's body and to burn Jameson's. He watched as they did so, all the while considering what name to give the boy.

The name was important. The name had to mean something. It had to be unique. There were so many surnames he could give the boy. Reid—his father's surname—was out of the question, as was Riddle, for obvious reasons. The boy's mother's maiden name had been Goodwin, a name much too closely associated with the Light for Voldemort's taste. Gaunt was a possibility, but that name had been obscure and derided for too long in certain parts of the Wizarding world. Besides, Voldemort did not want a constant reminder of his esteemed uncle and grandfather. 'Slytherin' or 'Peverell' would have been preferable, but those names were far too conspicuous for their own good. Thus like he had for himself, Voldemort would have to fashion a new surname for the boy, but not one so odd that it drew unwanted attention.

He settled on _Ellwood_. It meant "Elf-ruler" in the Old Tongue, but in the Old Tongue elves did not refer to house-elves. 'Elf,' then, had been a generic name for all magical creatures. An appropriate surname, thought Voldemort smugly, for one of his descendants. Ruler of all the magical world. And as for the boy's first name, 'Revelin' won out. It was another Old Tongue name, and it meant 'Pride, Rebellion,' for Voldemort believed the boy would be one of his many prides, and a strong asset in his rebellion.

His body thrumming in anticipation, Voldemort smiled, leaned down, and placed a cold, deathly kiss on the babe's forehead, his eyes gleaming. The Light would learn to fear the name _Revelin Ellwood. _


	2. Chapter 2

Please Note: If you have already part of the story, I've actually rearranged the chapters. What was previously chapter 2 is now chapter 3. Though technically you could read chapter 3 and chapter 2 in any order you wanted, I thought chronologically they made more sense this way.

It had started seven months after he had abandoned Ellen.

The first time it had happened had been after he had returned from the grocery store. He had gone there for his week's supply of Magical Meals to Go, as well as a few accessory items like milk and water. He was a terrible cook, unlike Ellen, and her abandonment had catapulted him into the world of restaurant food and to-go meals. It was one of the many life changes he had undergone since leaving his wife.

The truth of Ellen's identity had…devastated him. He had felt so deceived, taken in. How could she? All of her screaming about not knowing—how ridiculous! How could you _not know_ you were a Parselmouth? His fists clenched in anger. She must thought he was so stupid, to think he would believe _that. _The thought of his wife made him so angry his chest burned. He breathed heavily through his nose, glaring at the Magical Spaghetti box.

In those first few hours, in his shock and indignation, he had told everyone he knew. He had wanted them to know just how deceitful that witch was, how she had betrayed them all. He had wanted them to share his horror. Now he bitterly regretted it. Ellen had played them all, but she had played him worst of all. He _had _been stupid, and he felt humiliated about the whole affair. He had been avoiding his friends the past few weeks. He just couldn't face them. He was sure to see the condemnation in their eyes. _He had married Voldemort's daughter_. He felt disgusting. And what was worse, he had procreated with her! Spawned a child, helped continue Voldemort's line. He swallowed bitterly. Fortunately few people knew that—just the doctor, Ellen's boss, his parents. They had wanted to keep it secret for now. Marcus was glad he didn't have to admit that shame to his friends.

He selected the last of his purchases, paid for them, and with a _pop _disapparated to his neighborhood. He emerged from the alley apparition point and strode down the block to the white building at the end. His apartment complex had a variety of protective wards, one of which was an apparition ward. Marcus had moved to the place shortly after abandoning Ellen. His old apartment had held too many bitter memories. He had burned everything having to do with the woman. The only thing he hadn't been able to burn was the marriage license, since it was magically protected. But that was gone now, too. Two days ago it had burst into flames on its own accord. Marcus knew that could only mean that Ellen was dead. He was glad for it. He rather hoped Voldemort's grandchild was dead too.

He entered the building, greeted the guard on duty, Vinny, and stopped in front of the elevator-like doors. To a muggle, of course, the doors looked like the entrance to an elevator. To wizards they were much more. Marcus ran his finger down a pad on the side, and the light above the door lit up. The doors dinged open, and Marcus walked straight into his apartment.

It was dark inside, like it usually was. He set his bags down on the kitchen counter before turning on the lights, tilting his head to the side and cracking the joints in his neck. It had been a long day at work. He worked for the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, specifically for the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee, and that morning a bunch of giants had decided to riot in Syracuse. It had been a nightmare trying to explain _that_ to the muggles.

He stocked his refrigerator and had stepped out of the kitchen to go to the restroom when he froze abruptly. He stared disbelievingly at the end of the hallway. The hairs on the back of his neck pricked up. His heart started beating a little faster. His breath came a little quicker.

Hanging innocuously on the wall at the end of the hall was a wedding picture of Ellen. It had most certainly not been there this morning. Fear flooded him, and he slowly withdrew his wand, his hand shaking, craning his head around nervously.

There was no one else in the hallway. Still, every sense alert, he crouched into a defensive stance, hesitated, then burst into the bathroom. Bathroom was clear. He burst into his bedroom. Bedroom was clear. Room by room he checked the entire house, his heart pounding, his nerves frayed, on the verge of panic. He cast spell after spell to make sure no one was hiding from him, but he was alone. Unnerved, jumpy, all his senses on alert, he eventually returned to the picture in the hall.

He didn't know how someone had gotten into his apartment, didn't know how they had gotten hold of that picture, but he had a sinking feeling he knew who, or at least under who's orders, had done so. And it terrified him.

He tried to remove the picture. It was stuck to the wall as though built into it. He tried to transfigure it, tried to move it to a different section of the wall, but it wouldn't budge. He summoned a set of curtains and set them over it. They burst into flames—he yelped in surprise—and disintegrated into ash. He tried everything he could possibly think of to get rid of the picture, for hours on end, but to no avail. Ellen continued to smile up at him from beneath her veil.

He glared at her and stepped back. He would have to move out of the apartment.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

Marcus was never able to pinpoint anything, but in the following weeks he began to feel as though he was being watched. It would manifest as the tell-tale raising of the hair on the back of his neck as he left work, as he stood in line for the cashier, as he ordered at a restaurant. He never saw anyone, but that didn't stop the feeling of malevolence that followed him around. Sometimes the feeling frightened him so much he couldn't sleep at night. It didn't help that _accidents_ started to happen all around him.

Three days after the picture appeared in his apartment, his friends the Brewsters, whom he had told Ellen's true identity, died. Magical authorities said it was murder-suicide, that Michael Brewster had killed his three children and his wife before killing himself. Marcus doubted it. Michael hadn't been that sort of person.

Two weeks later, Ellen's old friend Paige Mabry fell of her broom while on her way to her boyfriend's house and plummeted to her death. It was a strange way for her to die. Paige had been a good flier.

On March 3rd, a fire, believed to be started by improperly-frozen Ashwinder eggs, consumed Ellen's old obstetrical clinic, taking with it every Healer in the building.

A week later, Ellen and Marcus's good friends the Hanleys were killed. Their ancient house elf admitted to accidentally slipping poison into their soup.

There was a pattern to these deaths, and only Marcus could see it. One by one, everyone who had abandoned Ellen, or who had known about her pregnancy, was being eliminated. The picture in his apartment had been a warning. Voldemort was on the move, and Marcus was afraid he was being saved for last.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

Time passed. In the year following Ellen's death, Ellen's former friends died like flies. Some of the 'accidents' that caused their deaths were so cleverly covered-up that even Marcus wondered whether they were genuine at times. He had tried to warn everyone, of course, told them it was Voldemort's work, but the accidents were so convincing that few people took him seriously when he referenced them, and those that did ended up dead anyway.

It had made Marcus paranoid beyond belief. He moved eight times in one year, but the feeling of being watched followed him everywhere, as did Ellen's wedding picture, displayed in a prominent location in every apartment. It almost made him mad. He did a period of heavy drinking there at month eight, especially after one of his best friends was killed when 'someone' mis-brewed his Pepper-Up potion.

On February 2nd, the one year anniversary of Ellen's death, every single person who had abandoned her, except Marcus and her best friend, Marjorie, was dead. Marcus woke up that morning with a fateful feeling in his stomach. He didn't go to work that day. He sat instead at his kitchen table, wand held loosely in his hand, drinking and listening to the radio. He had thought Voldemort would kill him that day.

He didn't. Instead the Dark Lord killed Marjorie. And it was definitely a murder. Marcus heard about it on the radio. Aurors had found the body of a woman on a park bench. From the description the broadcaster gave, it sounded like the bench where Marcus had first found Ellen talking to snakes. The body, said the broadcaster, was barely recognizable as Marjorie Smitham. She had been heavily tortured, very creatively. They had no idea who had done it. Apparently Voldemort hadn't left his mark the scene.

Marcus listened to the report and drank. He stayed locked inside, waiting for someone to come for him, but no one did. The malevolent feeling never left him. Three o'clock came, four o'clock, five o'clock. As the mantelpiece clock began to toll midnight, he started to breathe a little easier. On the twelfth toll, the picture of Ellen above the fireplace shimmered. Marcus tensed, staring at it, clutching his wand. But the picture simply shimmered…and disappeared, disintegrating like pixie dust on the wind. Marcus stared at it disbelievingly for a second, and then something shifted. The malevolence that had always followed him around dissipated, like it had never been. He felt lighter than he had in years.

The deaths stopped. The feeling of being watched completely disappeared. Marcus didn't believe it at first, couldn't accept it, but as weeks rolled by, he began to feel free. Happy. He decided to leave New York. He wanted to start over. He packed up his bags and moved across the country, to an isolated Wizarding village in Montana. Nothing followed him there. No pictures. No strange deaths. He made friends. They stayed alive. One and a half years after Ellen's death, he met a girl named Christie. She was beautiful, but not in the way Ellen had been, and she was sweet and simple and he knew who both of her parents were. A year later, they married. Six months later, Marcus learned Christie was expecting a child. And he was happy.

Across the Atlantic Ocean, Voldemort watched him as he moved to Montana, as he made friends, as he married, as he learned he was going to be a father. Voldemort watched him as he started to live again, without any concern whatsoever for his first child. He listened as the man exclaimed happily to his wife about _how excited _he was to "be a father for the first time!" And Voldemort smiled a cruel smile.


	3. Chapter 3

Note: This is a transition chapter so you have the background information for the main part of the story.

Also Note: If you have already read part of this story, this chapter was chapter 2. I've since added a chapter between it and the first chapter because I thought chronologically it made more sense to put the chapters that way. Although, since the chapters aren't closely related, you could read them in the reverse order.

On an unusually warm winter's day in Marrakech, Morocco, a small boy with brown hair peered through the iron railings of a balcony to the courtyard below. He was watching his shara, who was reclining on the lounge and reading a book, though it must not have been a very good one, as his brow was furrowed and there was a distinct tightening of his lips that only came when he was displeased. The boy watched him anxiously. He didn't like it when his shara was displeased. His shara was the most important person in his life, even if he could be a bit scary.

At least his shara was displeased in this form, though, thought the boy. His shara displeased was always scary, but he was even scarier when he was in the other form—the one of red eyes and pale skin and no nose. The boy had asked him once why he chose to be so ugly sometimes, and his shara had laughed, hissing, "_You will understand in time_."

As his thoughts centered on his shara, his shara's must have centered on him, for the man raised his head from his book and looked up directly to where the boy was leaning against the rail. He arched an eyebrow and crooked his finger. It was a direct summons, one the boy knew better than to disobey. He circled around to the narrow staircase and scrambled down, Vritra, his pet snake, slithering after him.

"_Shara?"_ he hissed questioningly when he was only a few feet away.

"_Revelin," _Shara replied, "_What do you wish to ask me?"_

Revelin did not wonder how his shara had known he wanted to ask him something. Even though he had just turned three, Revelin knew his shara was smarter than other sharas. He always seemed to know what Revelin was thinking. It was almost as if he was reading his mind.

"_I was going to ask if we could go to the souk today," _Revelin hissed back. "_But then I saw that you were angry._"

His shara considered him for a moment. "And why," he asked suddenly in English, "do you wish to go to the souk?"

Revelin resisted the urge to bite his lip. His shara did not like it when he bit his lip. But Revelin did not try to think of some intelligent excuse for his request, because his shara would know if he was being dishonest. Instead he said, "I just wanted to get outside the riad."

It was inadvertently a confession of unhappiness, but his shara did not get upset. Instead, he tilted his head to the side, considering Revelin with eyes that occasionally slit like those of a cat. He asked, gravely, "Are you bored here?"

Revelin resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably on his feet. His shara did not like it when he did that either. Revelin thought about what to say. He did not want to sound ungrateful, for his shara was always telling him to be grateful for what he had, but the truth won out. "Yes," he reluctantly confessed.

Rather than berate him for being ungrateful, though, his shara's lips turned up at the side. "I see. Very well. Then perhaps we ought to begin your education."

At first the words didn't register, but when they did, Revelin's stomach soared. "Really?" he squealed, jumping a little. He immediately calmed himself when he saw his shara frown. Still, he couldn't stop his eyes from shining as he asked again, "Really?"

His shara inclined his head. "Really. But tomorrow." He set his book down on the table and unfolded himself from a chair, soaring to his impressive height. Revelin skittered with excitement. His shara was going to begin teaching him! Revelin had been looking forward to it ever since he had learned what education _was_. Revelin could get so awfully bored.

"What are you doing now?" Revelin asked curiously, seeing the way his shara was grabbing his cloak.

"Getting ready to go to the souk," his shara answered, raising an eyebrow. "Isn't that what you wanted to do today?"

Revelin let out another little squeal, which made his shara frown, and ran off to his room to find his shoes.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

Voldemort had decided to raise the boy in Morocco for a variety of reasons, all of them related to the fact that Morocco provided complete anonymity.

In the hours after the boy's birth, when his mother's blood still coated the sheets, Voldemort had stared down at the child and pondered his future. It had been more than obvious to Voldemort that the boy couldn't be entrusted to his Death Eaters. Any Death Eater with cunning and ambition would realize immediately what sort of threat Voldemort's offspring posed to their own position. They would try, inevitably, to engineer his death in a way they suspected Voldemort wouldn't suspect, though of course he would…And any Death Eater who didn't follow that course of action was either too stupid to realize what a threat the child was or too weak to try to assassinate him. Either way, they were unworthy of raising Voldemort's offspring. No, the boy, since he was still just a boy, would have to be protected—from Voldemort's Death Eaters, from the Ministry of Magic, and from the Order of the Phoenix. And the best way for that to occur was for not a single living soul to suspect who exactly the boy was.

That was easier said than done, of course, when the boy was a Parselmouth. Voldemort's daughter had been lucky to remain unaware of her ability, but the same would not be said of the boy, not with Voldemort as his guardian. And Voldemort could recall the many times in his childhood when he had slipped up and spoken to a snake in the presence of others. Fortunately, it had been in front of muggles, and the muggles hadn't understood the significance of speaking to snakes. The same could not be said for a large portion of the Wizarding world. In the West, as had been the case with his mother, if Revelin said a word in Parseltongue in front of another, his identity would immediately be known. Since under no circumstances would Voldemort allow the child to be raised among muggles, that meant the child would have to be raised in a community where Voldemort did not have a presence, and where his abilities were largely unknown. That had effectively eliminated every country in Europe, most of North America, Australia, New Zealand, and South Africa, as well as China, Japan, and South Korea.

As soon as Voldemort had concluded that he would have to raise the boy outside his places of interest, he began searching for places that were, effectively, so random and so insignificant to Voldemort, that should Albus Dumbledore ever suspect Voldemort of hiding relatives, he would never seek them out there. Over the course of several days, Voldemort devised a list of seven possible cities: Marrakech, Morocco; Addis Ababa, Ethiopia; Antananarivo, Madagascar; Victoria, Seychelles; Phuket, Thailand; Lima, Peru; and Salvador, Brazil. He then narrowed it down to those cities with old European populations—in other words, cities that had a significant portion of European people, so that a European child wouldn't be unusual, but whose inherent European populations had been so long secluded from Europe that they still knew little of current European events. That had left Salvador, Victoria, Lima, and Marrakech.

Of those, he chose Marrakech because of two unique characteristics. The first was that snakes played a larger part of Moroccan culture than other cultures. In Marrakech, owls, cats, and rats, the usual Wizarding pets, were common, of course, but Marrakech was unique in that another pet was quite common: snakes. This prevalence of snakes was further protection for Revelin, another way for the boy to blend in. A boy with a pet snake wouldn't be that unusual here.

The second reason Voldemort chose Marrakech was the riad; that is, the prevalent housing type, found only in Morocco. Apparently, according to the real estate agent, the riad house style had been picked up from the muggles—which always filled Voldemort with great distaste—whose religion required that women be kept in seclusion. Thus riads were the ultimate in privacy. Like most dwellings in Europe, all riads were connected, like apartments and townhouses, but they didn't have a single exterior window. The only outward-facing aperture in the riad was the front door. Instead, to let in light, each riad was built around an interior courtyard, which was completely open air, generally with a pool or garden in it. Each room was accessible via the courtyard or the balcony overlooking it on the upper levels. The extra privacy this had afforded had pleased Voldemort immensely, so much so over the years that he had spent more time in the riad than he had initially anticipated. This fact made him rather grateful that he had decided to splurge on the place.

Initially, Voldemort had thought to get just a small, simple house for the boy—it would better help the child blend in—but circumstances had propelled him to make a larger purchase. For one, he had plenty of money. Though Voldemort himself had only ever been employed once—that brief stint at Borgin and Burkes—he had, over the decades, acquired a small fortune. It was because of his Death Eaters, of course, the particularly stupid ones. Sometimes his Death Eaters gave him gifts in an attempt to ingratiate themselves. Voldemort had little desire for material possessions, but he tolerated the gift-giving because it occasionally produced something useful, like a rare tome on dark magic or a powerful magical artifact. But one time, during the early years, a Death Eater had brought him a magical lyre. Of course, it was a wonderfully rare and expensive lyre, worth almost half a million galleons, but a lyre nevertheless. Voldemort had asked the idiotic, bumbling Death Eater, scathingly, what exactly he expected Voldemort to play. He had then continued on to comment, sarcastically, that the man would have been better to just give him the value of the lyre in gold. To Voldemort's utter mirth, the terrified little man had proceeded to do so. Voldemort had thought this so hysterical that, instead of killing the man, which is what he had intended to do, he let him live for sheer entertainment value. Over the decades, similar incidents had occurred, with terrified Death Eaters shoving large sums of money at Voldemort in the hopes that he might spare their lives. Apart from the first man, they had all been unsuccessful.

The second reason he had bought such a large, luxurious riad had to do with his identity in Morocco. The minute Voldemort had decided his Death Eaters couldn't be trusted with Revelin, he knew he would have to be completely responsible for the child's upbringing. While this thought would have normally repulsed him, Revelin was special. Revelin was a gift. Destiny had _given_ Revelin to him. Voldemort would be foolish if he didn't make sure Destiny's gift was properly cared for. Thus Voldemort could accept—not necessarily being a father or grandfather to Revelin—but a guardian, a teacher, or, in Parseltongue, a _shara_, an older male relative whom one ought to respect.

But to the outside world, Voldemort knew he would have to appear to be Revelin's father, since any other relationship would raise eyebrows. This required him to assume an alternate identity and body, since his current form was rather conspicuous. Thus, in the days following Revelin's birth, Voldemort performed an extremely dangerous ritual requiring the sacrifice of one of his followers—it had been a fitting use for the elder Mulciber—that turned him into something similar to a Metamorphagus. Voldemort had then created an alternate form. This second form looked a bit like what Tom Riddle might have looked like in his late thirties, early forties, but not too similar: Voldemort needed to resemble Revelin enough to look like his father but not resemble Tom Riddle so much that someone might get suspicious. He had then assumed the name Cadmus Ellwood, after his illustrious ancestor Cadmus Peverell, and had spun the story of being an independent Curse-Breaker, whose wife had died tragically and who had decided to raise in his son in Morocco to be close to work and far from the war going on in Europe. And since Voldemort was not good at faking stupidity nor did he desire to do so, Cadmus Ellwood would obviously be highly intelligent, which would ensure that his neighbors would expect him to be very successful, and successful Curse-Breakers made a lot of money. Hence the luxurious riad.

The transition to Marrakech had proved an interesting and surprisingly welcome change of scenery. It had been a simple enough transition at the time, considering the riad had come fully furnished. All Voldemort had to do was send one of his house-elves out for nursery items to make the place suitable for Revelin. And since the house-elves took care of Revelin's day to day needs, Voldemort rarely saw the child in the first few months, only occasionally checking in on him. He warded the child's nursery so he never had to hear the boy crying, so the rest of the house was generally very quiet and peaceful. The privacy the riad afforded meant Voldemort could use the rest of the house for a variety of Dark purposes without anyone suspecting anything, and the distance from his Death Eaters had been welcome. Lucius Malfoy seemed particularly happy to see Voldemort leave his manor, although of course Voldemort still used it for meeting with his Death Eaters—though, since he generally only did that in the evenings, he spent many daylight hours in Morocco.

Of course, it wasn't as though he spent all his free time in Morocco. Like before Revelin, Voldemort spent a good portion of his day doing magical research, which often required him to travel to obscure places across the globe. Indeed, between planning, doing research, meeting with his Death Eaters, and tracking the movements of his enemies, Voldemort generally only ended up spending one or two hours a day in the riad doing nonessential functions—that is, not eating or sleeping. Voldemort had very little free time, which was only to be expected considering he was taking over the world.

His schedule was about to undergo a drastic change, though, with the beginning of Revelin's education. Though the boy was barely three, Voldemort knew he was ready for this step. Voldemort had looked into the child's mind, had seen it develop over the years, knew it better than anyone else's mind. When he had been born, Revelin's mind had been formless, fluidic, full of mostly base emotions but marked by flashes of curiosity. Voldemort had watched as it grew, took form, and compartmentalized. At 3 months the boy had uttered his first word. It was in Parseltongue, since the child's throat and mouth muscles hadn't developed enough for the use of English, and Voldemort had seen in his mind that the boy didn't truly comprehend what he was saying; rather, he was merely repeating what he had often heard. But it wasn't much longer till the boy spoke and understood, at 6 months. Thus that first year Voldemort had conversed with the child in only Parseltongue, though their conversation was limited as Revelin's understanding and awareness of the wider world was limited. It fascinated Voldemort, though, studying the boy as he developed. He had watched as awareness of the world filtered in, as the child connected points A and B to a sudden revelation. This was particularly amusing when he saw, as if a sudden switch had been flipped in the boy's brain, Revelin realize the movement he was capable of versus what Voldemort and the house elves were capable of, and his resulting frustration at being able to do little more than wriggle. The frustration hadn't lasted long: the child had apparently focused all of his concentration on learning how to move, so by nine months the boy could toddle around. It was an extraordinary developmental milestone for a child, but everything about the boy's development had been extraordinary.

At one, the boy started picking up Arabic, and later, English. Now he was three, and fluent in all three languages, enough that his education could begin in earnest, and he was intelligent and curious enough that he had already thoroughly explored and tinkered with the various objects in the rooms he was allowed to go in, and now he was beginning to get bored. Voldemort had noticed it a few weeks ago, when Revelin had begun asking more and more often to go to the nearby souk. The boy enjoyed the intellectual stimulation the souk provided, since Voldemort, when they went, often told him the history of the buildings or the uses and histories of the various objects sold in the market. Revelin absorbed this information like a sponge, often asking an endless array of questions about everything, so much so that sometimes they ended up spending long hours among the stalls.

When Voldemort wasn't in the mood to tell Revelin various stories, the boy entertained himself in other ways, namely by trying to speak with vendors, who were all charmed by the tiny, intelligent child. Voldemort had no problem with this, one, because it was good for Revelin to have practice charming people, and two, because Revelin had begun to pick up words and phrases in other languages, namely Spanish and French—which Voldemort of course knew—and several of the Berber languages of the indigenous Moroccan population, which Voldemort didn't—Tamazight, Tachelhit, and Tarifit.

There had been another way the child had tried to entertain himself, and this one had concerned Voldemort. Namely, Revelin had attempted for a while to interact with other children his age. Voldemort hadn't wanted Revelin forming any silly attachments, but he had decided to let the boy be. He knew Revelin would discover on his own just how unworthy other children were of being his friends. And indeed Revelin had discovered this, since, for a child as intelligent as Revelin, other children his age were plain dumb. "Some," Revelin had exclaimed in shock, in his perfect, grammatically-correct English, "can't even form full sentences!" And those children who were intelligent enough to not be idiots in comparison to Revelin were much too old to play with a toddler. Revelin had stopped trying to wonder off and play with other children three weeks ago.

_Indeed_, thought Voldemort smugly, picking up Revelin and setting him on his hip. He locked the door to the riad behind him and strode bristly towards the bustling souk._ It is unlikely that Revelin will ever seek out friendship again, now that he understands just how special he is. He is learning his place in the world. _Voldemort was pleased.


	4. Chapter 4

Voldemort had always believed he would be a good teacher. It had been the career he most wanted to pursue as a cover for his other activities, and though he had had stints of teaching some of his Death Eaters the Dark Arts, it had never been on the scale he wanted. Dumbledore had always prevented that.

Dumbledore. It always came down to Dumbledore.

Voldemort felt a deep rush of loathing at the thought of the man, and he simmered in it for a moment, clutching his wand tightly. Below him, the petty Death Eater cowering on the ground eyed his wand and whimpered.

Hearing him, Voldemort breathed out slowly and relaxed his grip. This Death Eater was not the subject of his ire. In fact, he had been reporting a minor success. Though Voldemort of course could go ahead and torture him anyway, punishing his servants for their successes as well as their failures would be counterproductive.

His red eyes dropped to the Death Eater. "You have done well," he informed him coldly. "Leave."

The little man needed no encouragement. Scrambling backward, he stammered out, "Th-thank you, my l-lord. You are m-most g-gracious" before disapparating with a pop.

Voldemort could breathe more easily once the man was gone. Being in the presence of such imbeciles always felt stifling. Voldemort took one look at them and instantly loathed them, and it was hard to listen to their reports when it was much more pleasurable to imagine their deaths. He had the plan for Peter Pettigrew's death perfected. The little rat had best hope he didn't lose his value as a spy on the Order.

Smirking rather maliciously at the thought, Voldemort stood, swept down the steps of his dais, and out the throne room and into one of the private rooms of Malfoy Manor. There he pulled from beneath his robes a small medallion of a snake. He hissed a spell in Parseltongue, and the portkey shot him through the words of the Manor as if they were nonexistent. A second later he landed in his library in Morocco.

A bell chimed in the courtyard, letting the house-elves and Revelin know he had arrived. Voldemort heard from upstairs the sound of feet pattering on the floor. He glanced at himself in a floor-length mirror, and immediately his form start shifting. Cheekbones and nose jutted out, lips and hair appeared, skin darkened, red eyes turned black. It took only a few seconds for Voldemort to turn into Cadmus Ellwood.

He sensed Revelin clambering down the stairs, and Voldemort strode outside to meet him. It was early morning in Morocco; the sun was pale and weak on the horizon, the air chilled. Voldemort had been gone most of the night, and he suspected Revelin had only been awake for a little while. Sure enough, when the boy emerged from the staircase, his face flushed with excitement, his hair was still soaked from his shower. Voldemort frowned as he eyed it, fingering his wand. It would be no good for the boy to get sick on his first day of lessons. Voldemort didn't want the child to associate education with misery. Just as Revelin opened his mouth to greet him, a drying charm seared his hair.

Revelin's mouth snapped shut, and a confused expression crossed his face. He reached up to touch his hair as if he didn't quite know what had just happened to him.

Voldemort took advantage of the ensuing silence to skip all niceties. "Have you had breakfast yet?" he enquired, stowing away his wand.

Revelin shook his head quickly. "No, Shara."

"Good," said Voldemort. "Then we shall eat together. I am sure Poinai will have whipped up something by now."

Poinai was a house elf. Upon acquiring all his house-elves, Voldemort had promptly renamed them. He wasn't about to call his servants something like "Twinky" or "Flopsy" or "Pippy." Those were stupid names. They sounded too much like what a prepubescent girl might name a pet Puffskein. The only house elf he didn't rename was Missy: she was so damn old she didn't respond to anything else.

Placing his hand on Revelin's shoulder, Voldemort guided the boy into the dining room where a steaming-hot, full English breakfast already awaited them both. Voldemort smiled in approval. His house elves had learned early on to go out of their way to please him. It was amazing what a quick dose of the Cruciatus would do. Lucius ought to try it on his errant house-elf.

"Did you get a good night's sleep last night?" Voldemort enquired as he poured himself a cup of tea. It was important that the boy be fresh and ready for his first day.

Revelin nodded quickly. "Yes, Shara." Voldemort caught the briefest flash of hesitance in the boy's mind, and he arched an eyebrow. Seeing this, the boy amended his statement. "Well," he cleared his throat, "I had some difficulty falling asleep last night, because I was so excited. But once I fell asleep, I slept well."

Voldemort nodded, but didn't say anything. It pleased him the boy was so honest with him. It was a refreshing change compared to his sniveling Death Eaters. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps it was because Revelin wasn't afraid of being Crucio'd that he was so honest, but Voldemort crushed that thought immediately. He had no use for such counter-productive thinking.

They ate their meal in silence, and when they had finished, Voldemort turned to Revelin. "I've furnished the empty room on the second level as a classroom. Meet me there in 15 minutes."

Revelin nodded eagerly, his face glowing.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

Before Voldemort could teach Revelin anything else, he had to teach the boy how to read. But he didn't start with the English alphabet. He started with the Arabic alphabet, the abjad. He thought it would better help Revelin fit in and operate in Morocco. Voldemort would teach him the English alphabet later, when the boy was well-adjusted to the Arabic one. In the meantime, however, there were plenty of course-books in Arabic for the boy to read, so he would still be able to learn on his own without a problem.

"When you read and write," Voldemort said quietly to Revelin, "you are interpreting letters, which represent sound." He picked up a quill, dipped it into ink, and wrote an elegant symbol on parchment paper. Revelin's eyes watched him avidly. "This is _Baa_. It represents the sound its name makes. _Baa_ is in book, brain, ball, balm, bank, and bar. Can you name other words that contain _Baa?_"

Revelin nodded eagerly. "Boy, beach, bed, bear, big, baby—"

"And how many _Baa_ sounds are there in baby?" Voldemort interrupted to ask.

Revelin paused, with an expression on his face as if he was afraid this was a trick question. "Two," he said, after a moment of thought.

"Good." Voldemort drew another symbol. "This is _alif._ It represents the _aa_ sound." He drew another symbol. This one looked like the first two meshed together, _Baa_ on the right, _alif_ on the left. "When you write both _Baa_ and _alif_, you put them together like this. Now," he pointed to the symbol, "What sound do these two together make? Go from right to left."

Revelin considered it a moment. "_Baah_."

"Good." Voldemort drew the fused symbol twice. "And what does this sound like?"

Revelin looked confused. "_Baah baah._" There was a pause. Then his face lit up. "Baabaa!" Baba. The Arabic word for "Papa."

Revelin rocked back and forth in excitement, then stared up at Voldemort eagerly. "What else?"

Voldemort looked down at him, his expression serious. "Do you understand how reading and writing works?"

Revelin nodded quickly. "Yes, Shara."

"Good. Then the rest of this should be easy."

Voldemort introduced four more symbols that morning, drilling them into Revelin's head by making him name words that contained those letters, giving him words and asking him which sounds were in them, and making him form words from the sounds he had introduced. He did this for hours, quizzing the child, while Revelin answered and sat in his tiny desk, practicing writing each letter, over and over again. Voldemort was pleased with Revelin's performance. It wasn't until Voldemort started throwing large words at him in rapid succession that the child finally started stumbling.

The first time he answered a question incorrectly, Revelin had stopped and stared at him, looking horrified and terrified, as if Voldemort was going to cast him out of the classroom now. Voldemort considered him in silence for a minute. He sensed this was a crucial moment: that criticizing the boy now could completely destroy his confidence. Voldemort would need to be careful.

"Even I have made mistakes," he told Revelin eventually. The boy looked marginally less horrified. "It is okay to make a mistake now. You are allowed to make them, in an academic setting like this. But you must learn from them."

Revelin nodded quickly.

Voldemort gazed at him levelly. "So where did you go wrong, and what did you learn from going wrong?"

Revelin thought back on it. Voldemort had been asking him to transcribe English words into the abjad. He had misspelled 'thunder.' "I used," he said slowly, "_taa_ which is the 't' sound instead of _thaa, _which is the 'th' sound_._"

"And what did you learn from that mistake?"

"That I need to be careful when choosing between _taa_ and _thaa?_"

"Are you asking me or telling me?"

"Telling," said Revelin firmly.

"Correct."

"Very well. Now, spell 'pathway.'"

That night, before he left for Malfoy Manor, Voldemort stopped outside of Revelin's room and peered in through the crack in the door. Parchment paper littered the bed, full of inky black marks still wet and glistening in the candlelight. Revelin lay on his stomach in the center of the mess, his right hand clutching his quill, a determined expression on his face, as he practiced writing his letters over and over again.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

Voldemort stared down at his servant. "Tell me about the Potters and Longbottoms."

At his feet, Nott lowered his head so far his forehead touched the ground. "My lord," he said quickly, "the Potters and Longbottoms have begun to lower their guard. They wander in public more freely now. The Longbottoms went to Diagon Alley this week, albeit still trailed by three different members of the Order, and the Potters visited Hogsmeade, though Albus Dumbledore was present. Two years ago, neither family would have dared come out of hiding at all."

He waited for Voldemort to speak, but Voldemort stayed quiet, thoughtful. Nervous, he ventured, "P-perhaps _now_, my lord, might be a g-good t-time—"

"No," said Voldemort simply, and Nott snapped shut his mouth. Voldemort leaned back in his throne, appearing oddly relaxed. "No," he said again, "I chose, when I heard the prophecy, not to take immediate action. As a baby neither boy posed a threat to me, and as toddlers they still do not. I will wait and see which of them appears to be more powerful before acting."

Voldemort couldn't very well imagine either child ever posing a threat to him. Both appeared to be quite normal children, not prodigious like Revelin. Still, he would err on the side of caution when it came to the prophecy. One of the boys would have to be eliminated. Eventually.

"Continue to watch them," Voldemort instructed Nott. His mind flicked to Bellatrix Lestrange, and he added, "In fact, should it ever appear that any of my…overzealous Death Eaters are attempting to take matters into their own hands, prevent them from doing so. The Potter and Longbottom boys are not to be harassed or attacked in any way. Their parents must be lulled into a false sense of security. When I do decide to eliminate one of the boys, I would prefer it if I had to deal with as little security as possible."

"Yes, my lord," said Nott swiftly.

"Good," said Voldemort, bored with the conversation already. "You are dismissed. Send in Pettigrew as you leave."

As Pettigrew gave his report on the Order, Voldemort's thoughts kept on flicking back to the prophecy. When he had first heard it, a little over two years ago, his initial instinct had been to hunt down both the Potters and the Longbottoms and murder the children. What had prevented him from doing so had been Revelin. Voldemort had returned to Morocco the day after hearing the prophecy and checked in on Revelin in the nursery. Revelin had been so small and harmless, and it had occurred to Voldemort that both the Potter boy and the Longbottom boy were even smaller and more helpless. It had suddenly seemed stupid to waste his resources trying to kill two babies when they obviously posed no threat to him. He had instead decided to simply keep tabs on the boys until they were older. He would kill them when he had time to kill them. If either one of them ever had the power to defeat him, they wouldn't have it for a long, long time, so Voldemort could be patient. In hindsight it had been the right decision. From the information he had received, both boys seemed painfully ordinary. Voldemort was insulted Dumbledore seemed to believe either had the power to defeat him.

When Pettigrew was done with his report—nothing much new had surfaced—Voldemort dismissed him with a couple of Crucios—he had no real reason to do so, other than the fact he simply like torturing the rat—and sat back and contemplated his next move.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

Revelin learned and flourished. In three days the child had memorized the abjad and was able to read simple words, albeit slowly and through pronouncing them out loud. On day four Voldemort taught him about basic sentence structure, and he was able to read simple sentences. By the end of the week he could read more complex sentences.

Revelin could barely contain his happiness at learning how to read, though he tried to for Voldemort's sake, for Voldemort did not approve of excessively expressing emotions. Every time the child read a sentence correctly, however, his face glowed. And though Voldemort gave him praise sparingly, each time he did, Revelin might well have floated off the ground, he was so happy.

The child worked hard at learning how to read. Every time he was not in lessons he was practicing his writing, saying the words out loud as he did so, or sitting on the floor in the library and slowly pronouncing the titles of each Arabic book on the bottom shelves. Voldemort was pleased with his work ethic, and told him so. As he had anticipated, the boy had appeared thrilled and had then proceeded to work even harder.

The second week of instruction Voldemort switched from focusing entirely on learning how to read to only partly doing so. Half the lesson was spent in review and practice of the abjad, and the other half was devoted to introducing mathematics. In the introduction of mathematics, Voldemort simply had the child learn numeric symbols and explained to him how the ten's system worked. Neither was a difficult concept for Revelin to grasp. The boy had already known his numbers up to a thousand and had already figured out on his own the basic idea behind addition and subtraction. The child had a very mathematical mind. Arithmancy would come especially easily to him. Voldemort had been very similar, at that age. In the muggle primary school he had been forced to endure, the teacher had eventually resorted to giving him secondary school mathematics problems to prevent him from getting bored.

In the ensuing months, Voldemort slowly diversified the subjects he taught, spreading into such topics as geography, history, and extremely basic herbology and magical theory. He devoted at least three hours of instruction a day to reading and writing. He wanted Revelin's literacy to be superb. It was imperative that the child be comfortable reading texts on his own for extended periods of time. Voldemort couldn't continue to devote 11 hours a day to Revelin's education, as he had been doing. Much of his research had been put on hold, and that couldn't continue forever. Voldemort had a world to take over. Ideally, eventually, he would instill enough discipline in Revelin for him to be able to learn plenty on his own. That wasn't to say Voldemort would no longer teach Revelin—he still planned to squeeze in about six hours a day of instruction—but that Revelin would learn the rest of the day on his own.

It crossed Voldemort's mind that children Revelin's age typically didn't do well in such a structured, demanding environment. It had then crossed his mind that he was glad Revelin was in no way typical for his age. Revelin was like _he_ had been at that age, and young Tom Riddle had never wanted to run around like other children. He had always wanted to read whatever books he could get his hands on.

Seven months into Revelin's education, Voldemort reduced the time he taught the child by one hour. Revelin looked up, confused, when Voldemort told him the lesson was over for the day.

"But Shara," he had protested, "We still have an hour."

"I realize," said Voldemort mildly. He flicked his wand, and a thin book flew off the shelf on the wall.

Revelin read its title out loud questioningly, "_Strange Stories in Magical History?_"

"Yes," said Voldemort simply. It was a simplified version of the book, meant for children. Voldemort thought it prudent to start Revelin's independent reading with something more entertaining than a typical course-book. When Revelin continued to stare at him curiously, Voldemort pointed to the wizard clock on the wall and explained, "I would like you to read as much of this book as you can until the hour is up. Meet me downstairs when you are done. Start with chapter one."

Voldemort gauged his reaction carefully, to see how well the boy would adapt to this new method of instruction. To his credit, Revelin took it in stride. "Yes, Shara," he said obediently, clasping the book with both hands. Voldemort considered him for another moment, before nodding in satisfaction. "Very well." He swept out of the room.

When the hour was up, Revelin strode downstairs, the book held tightly in both hands. Voldemort was waiting for him at the dining table, sipping tea and reading reports Rookwood had stolen from the Department of Mysteries. When Revelin entered the room, Voldemort looked up.

"_How far did you get?"_ he hissed in Parseltongue.

"_To a page into Chapter Three, Shara."_

"_Recount the details of Chapter Two."_

Revelin immediately launched into a detailed explanation of the story of Barnabas the Barmy, and Voldemort listened patiently, occasionally interrupting to ask a more detailed question in order to see how much Revelin had absorbed. Revelin was able to answer them all satisfactorily, and when Voldemort had finished quizzing him he smiled in satisfaction.

"You are an attentive reader," he said. Revelin glowed with the praise.

Voldemort pointed to Revelin's seat, and Revelin sat. A second later his meal appeared before him, and Voldemort returned his attention to the reports as Revelin dug in.

The boy would have no problems learning independently. In fact—Voldemort raised his eyes briefly from the reports—the child was attempting to read more of the book underneath the table. Voldemort normally would have chastised him for doing so, but that would have been hypocritical at the moment. He was doing the exact same thing. Instead he returned his attention to the reports and took another sip of tea. Dinner passed in silence.


	5. Chapter 5

Please Note: This chapter is mostly from Revelin's point of view. I hope you like it.

The first time Shara took him to the ocean, Revelin almost didn't believe what he was seeing. An endless stretch of deep blue, met by light blue sky…it was a stark change from the dirty-brown of the rocky beach. Revelin craned his head around and peered up at his shara in astonishment.

"It's so _big_," he said, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. He had known what the ocean was, of course, had seen pictures of it in his geography books, and had realized it must be big, but he hadn't imagined how large it would seem in person.

His shara arched an eyebrow and tilted his head. "Not what you expected?"

As he stared out at the ocean, excitement thrummed in Revelin's chest. He smiled happily. "No," he said eagerly, "_Better_." Before his shara could say anything, Revelin tugged his hand free and slid down the sand dune, racing to the water, his little heart beating in anticipation. He wanted to feel the water, see and experience the waves and the sand and the fish he had always read about.

He had almost made to the shore when an unseen force hooked him in the small of his back and _tugged_. Revelin yelped in surprise as he shot backward like a rocket through the sands. A hand grabbed his arm, and Revelin stumbled to the ground at his shara's side.

Revelin peeked up at him nervously, then shrunk in shame. Shara was scowling at him. "Don't run off without my permission," he told Revelin sternly.

"Yes, Shara," he said immediately, blushing pink.

"You can swim later," said Shara, his voice still stern. "But not now."

Revelin cringed at his shara's tone. The sick feeling he got whenever his shara was disappointed in him pooled in his stomach. He hunched his shoulders and peered down at his feet.

A finger forced his chin up. "Never look down like that," his shara chastised him. "It is unbecoming."

Revelin nodded quickly, feeling miserable. He had disappointed his shara _again_. Twice in less than a minute!

"Now," said his shara, tapping his chin, "tell me: how many oceans are there?"

Revelin swallowed. He had to answer all of his shara's questions correctly. He didn't want to disappoint him again. "Five," he said.

"Which one borders Morocco?"

"The Atlantic," said Revelin quickly. Then, at his shara's arched eyebrow, he added hurriedly, "And the Mediterranean Sea, also."

"And what is the difference between an ocean and a sea?" Shara pressed.

"A sea is…generally smaller. An inlet"—'inlet' had been a word he had learned just this week, and he hoped his shara noticed he used it—"connected to an ocean."

Shara didn't say anything about his vocabulary. Instead he was silent for a long moment. "And what," he finally asked, rather ominously, "is the other definition of a sea?"

Revelin swallowed and thought about it quickly, anxiety blooming in his chest. "A sea is also a…salty lake?"

Shara's lips quirked up a bit, and the atmosphere immediately lightened. "Essentially," he acknowledged. "A very large one." He tugged on Revelin's arm and the two climbed down the bluff, his shara smoothly and elegantly, Revelin tumbling a bit. When they got near the waves, Shara set the pace for a walk along the shore.

"Now," Shara asked, the sea breeze playing with his hair, "What causes waves?"

Revelin thought about it. "Um…"

"Don't say 'um.'"

Revelin had to bite his lip to stop himself from saying it again. He racked his brain. He knew this. He had just read it. But the fact that he had upset Shara was making him forget everything. "Wind," he remembered at last.

"Good. And what causes the tides?"

And thus began at least an hour of questions, as his shara quizzed him over everything related to the ocean. Some of the questions his shara asked, Revelin had no idea what the answer was, and he was rather frightened of his shara's reaction. But when he confessed to it, to Revelin's relief, his shara did not seem perturbed. Instead he would say, rather mildly, "I imagine you have not read it yet," and would continue on to explain in detail the answer to his question, whether it be on oceanic animals or wind currents. Revelin listened to him as he always did, and as always he was awed by just how much his shara knew. Revelin couldn't imagine anyone in the whole world knowing more than his shara!

When Revelin finished answering his shara's last question, about the location of the Aral Sea, his shara stopped and looked down at him, his expression inscrutable. Revelin resisted the urge to fidget under his shara's gaze. He didn't want his shara to be upset the way he had been earlier, and fidgeting would be sure to upset him.

"You have done well," Shara said, eventually. Some of Revelin's misery washed away. Considering him for a moment, Shara at last nodded his head and looked up. Revelin followed his gaze.

They had come upon a damp, rocky stretch of shore, where collections of water had pooled in concavities in the rock. His shara guided him close to one so Revelin could look into it. It was shallow, only one or two hand-widths deep. Scrubby little plants of pale greens and reds ringed its edge, and inside two tiny fish darted about frantically, as if searching for a way back to the ocean.

"These are tidal pools," explained Shara, at Revelin's questioning glance. He went on to describe how tidal pools formed, and Revelin listened intently. Shara explained that the plants that grew in tidal pools were unique, that they were adapted to live in both air and water. He knelt down next to the pool and pointed to a particularly stunted-looking planet. "Do you see this?" Shara asked.

Revelin nodded. "Yes, Sir."

"It's gillyweed," said Shara, yanking a handful and uprooting it. He handed it to Revelin so Revelin could examine it more closely. "It allows a person to breathe underwater," Shara explained. "Generally for about an hour, but it depends on how much one consumes."

Revelin turned over the gillyweed in his hand. It was grey-green and slimy. He imagined it tasted quite yucky. As he stared at it, a funny thought popped into his head, and he blurted it out before he was even truly aware of what he was saying. "Is that because it lives in tidal pools?"

His shara paused in what he was doing and tilted his head to the side, looking rather intrigued. "Clarify."

Revelin swallowed, nervousness and excitement battling in his chest, as the idea took root in his mind. He hoped his shara did not think it was a stupid idea. "You said that plants in tidal pools can live in air and water, and gillyweed grows in tidal pools," he said anxiously. "Is that why its magic can let people who breathe air breathe underwater, because it can do both?"

There was a brief pause as his shara seemed to think about what he was saying, and then a slow smile spread across his face. "_Very _good_, Revelin_." He sounded both surprised and impressed. "Yes, it is."

Revelin's little cheeks flushed. He was so excited he had managed to impress his shara. Another idea popped into his head, and he asked quickly, hoping this question would also please his shara, "Then if it can make creatures that breathe only air breathe underwater, can it also make creatures that breathe only underwater breathe air?"

His shara arched an eyebrow. Revelin thought he looked even more impressed, and he resisted the urge to rock back and forth in excitement. "I have never considered it before," admitted his shara. He flicked his wand. "Let's find out."

About forty feet into the ocean, the water bubbled ominously before a long grey fish burst into the air, writhing desperately. His shara flicked his wand again and the fish hurtled toward them, landing with a squelching _slap_ between them. It immediately began to flop around desperately, knocking Revelin and his shara around the ankles, till his shara immobilized it. With a few clever movements of his wand, his shara sliced off a section of gillyweed and forced it down the fish's throat, then mobilized it again.

The fish continued to thrash for a few more seconds, but then it calmed, its sides heaving. Revelin observed with fascination that two breathing slits had appeared on the ridge above its upper jaw. His shara kneeled down and picked up the fish from behind its eyes, examining the slits more closely.

"I believe you are right," his shara announced at last, tossing the fish down carelessly. "Gillyweed does work both ways. Very good, Revelin."

Revelin's heart soared.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

Voldemort stared down at the tiny child as the boy knelt next to the flopping fish, observing it in fascination. A smile twisted his lips.

He was extraordinarily pleased. _If gillyweed can make creatures that breathe only air breathe underwater, can it also make creatures that breathe only underwater breathe air?_ What an incredibly insightful question, all based on the most rudimentary knowledge of the plant! Voldemort was quite sure no one had ever asked that question before, that gillyweed's secondary function hadn't been discovered until now. He wasn't sure what that knowledge could be used for…it probably had veterinary value…but he was extraordinary pleased that Revelin had discovered it.

His eyes glowed as he thought about it. Like he had always suspected would be the case, Revelin showed _such _promise. Most grown wizards, even experienced herbologists, would have never considered that possibility for gillyweed, and Revelin, at age four, amateur, _had_.

It was exactly the sort of creativity, insight, and intelligence Voldemort had always expected from his offspring. A feeling of triumph surged through him. As he had suspected would be the case the night the child was born, Revelin was proving to be a point of pride for Voldemort.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

There were so many terrible reasons to have Pettigrew as a spy, but one of the worst had to be that the man was incapable of giving information in an efficient and speedy manner. Little did the rat know that he could do as he so desperately desired and spend less time in Voldemort's presence if he just managed to speak without stammering. It annoyed Voldemort that the vermin wasted his precious time by forcing Voldemort to drag out from him all relevant information.

"—a-and R-Rubeus H-Hagrid h-has b-been s-sent t-to t-try a-and—"

"Convince the giants to leave my side?" guessed Voldemort, sneering. "I would have _never _thought that Dumbledore would send the only Order member with giant blood to negotiate with the giants."

At his side, Bellatrix tittered with laughter. Pettigrew flushed pink.

"Give me something useful, Wormtail!" Voldemort snarled. He raised his wand. "_Crucio!_"

Pettigrew screamed and writhed on the floor, clawing desperately at the marble tile. Voldemort lifted the curse after only a minute. If he kept it much longer, the rat would go insane. Pettigrew whimpered as the curse was lifted, sobbing at Voldemort's feet. Voldemort stared down at him in disgust and loathing.

"You are _useless_," he hissed. "_Legilimens!_"

He hurtled through the man's mind, an utterly revolting experience, rummaging through his memories, inflicting as much pain as possible. The rat's fear was overwhelming and pathetic and inwardly Voldemort sneered. He was about to leave his mind in disgust, having found nothing of significance, when he snatched at a wayward memory and examined it more closely. Fury rushed through him, and he pulled out of Pettigrew's mind, snarling, his eyes glowing with rage.

"You are an _idiot_," Voldemort hissed in fury, "Did it not cross your mind to inform me that Emmeline Vance and Dorcas Meadowes are the guardians of the Sorceror's Stone? _Crucio!_"

Pettigrew screamed again, and this time Voldemort held the curse longer, the rage rushing through his blood making him worry less about the man's sanity. Eventually he lifted it, and when he did Pettigrew was a blubbering, though still sane, mess on the ground.

"Leave my sight immediately!" Voldemort snarled. "You _disgust_ me."

Sobbing, Pettigrew scrambled backwards, tripping and falling over his own robes in his haste to depart. Voldemort's lip curled, loathing rushing through him, and his hand inched towards his wand again. Pettigrew, however, squeaked in terror and managed to stand and disapparate before Voldemort had the chance to curse him again.

When the rat had gone, Voldemort leaned back in his chair. At his side, Bellatrix looked up at him adoringly. "My lord," she breathed at his feet. "What do you wish to do?"

Voldemort looked down at her, and then at the other assembled Inner Circle Death Eaters. "I wish," he said, slowly and clearly, anger still coating his voice, "to acquire Emmeline Vance and Dorcas Meadowes."

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

Shara showed Revelin the world.

When Shara started to expand the number of subjects he taught Revelin, and Revelin started learning more independently, Shara was able to give Revelin more hands-on experience. In herbology, they covered Abyssinian shrivelfigs, so Shara apparated them both to the Highlands of Ethiopia. There on the edge of a great, rocky precipice, silent but for the buffeting wind, the rustling grass, and the cries of the baboons not a hundred yards away, Shara showed Revelin a cluster of shrivelfigs in their natural habitat. There they sat in the noon sun and ate lunch, with Shara pointing out between bites the different properties of the plant, a 1000-foot drop not five feet away.

When Revelin began Care of Magical Creatures, the first type of creature to learn had been magical birds. For their first lesson, Shara snapped on them both a pair of soundproof earmuffs and apparated them to the jungles of the Congo, where they hunted down Fwoopers, multicolored birds whose song could drive men to madness. Shara found a nest of them and the two spent a long, sticky afternoon studying their habits from afar, Shara writing down every observation he wished Revelin to take note of. Near the end of the day Shara caught one, placed a strong silencing charm on it, and brought it back home so Revelin could study its anatomy in more detail.

When Shara taught Revelin History of Magic, he apparated them both to the sites associated with each lesson. The two spent one morning in Egypt touring the Valley of the Kings, Shara taking Revelin to see the places where important burial rituals had occurred thousands of years ago. Each ritual had been so powerful that both Shara and Revelin could still feel the echoes of it, though Revelin was not sure the tourists, who had taken to following them because Shara knew so much more than the tour guide, could feel it as well.

Shara could make anything interesting. Even boring subjects, like potion theory, could be fascinating with Shara teaching it. Shara would take Revelin to different locations across the world, from Brazil to Siberia, with the purpose of demonstrating how different cultures utilized each plant and showing Revelin the different magical properties in use. Then they would return to the classroom in the riad, and Shara would ask Revelin to summarize the plant's properties, and then guess what each plant's effect would be in a potion. It was never that hard for Revelin to guess, not after the day of travel. Shara had a way of showing Revelin things and explaining them in such a manner that everything just made sense.

Sometimes, in the course of Revelin's studies, his shara took him to Europe. Shara was always so paranoid about Revelin's safety when they went to Europe. Revelin was under strict orders to never _ever_ use Parseltongue when they were there. Revelin wasn't quite sure why his shara was so paranoid, but he suspected it had something to do with the great war going on in England and the continent. He also suspected, from mutterings he had overheard from Shara and the house-elves, that his shara was somehow heavily involved in the war. Revelin was curious about Shara's involvement, but he was also a little afraid to know, so he didn't ask anything. Whatever the case, Revelin was never worried the way his shara was when they traveled to Europe. Revelin was confident that if the bad guys attacked, his shara could send them running in no time. It seemed to Revelin that his shara didn't seem to realize just how scary he was when he was angry, which Revelin told him one day when they were in Spain and Shara seemed unusually tense. This had inexplicably caused Shara to burst out laughing. Revelin wasn't sure if his shara was laughing at him, but he didn't mind either way: his shara was much more relaxed and pleasant the rest of the day.

Despite how tense his shara was in Europe, Revelin liked to go there. A lot of people spoke English in Europe, and Revelin, who had only ever been able to talk with his shara in English, thought it was fun to be able to talk with someone else in the language. And it helped that it helped him practice his reading, for Shara had _finally _begun to teach him the English alphabet. Whenever they were in Europe and his shara was distracted with, say, talking to a vendor, Revelin would shift in his shara's arms (in Europe, Shara kept Revelin close, often balancing him on his hip, as if afraid someone was going to snatch him away), peer over his shara's shoulder, and slowly, struggling, attempt to pronounce aloud the words of various signs. Revelin always found it so difficult to pronounce these words out loud, a fact which frustrated him when he confessed it to Shara.

"It's because," said Shara, shifting Revelin on his hip as he looked around, "none of the signs are actually in English, though they use the same alphabet. Remember we are in Sweden, child."

Revelin looked at Shara imploringly. "Then can we go to England?" he asked. "I would like to practice."

Shara tensed. "I will get you some basic English books, so you can practice with those instead."

Revelin's brow furrowed. "But…why can't we go to England?"

"England isn't safe."

A distressed expression crossed Revelin's face. "But what about the next chapter?" he asked, upset. "It's about the history of magical England!"

Shara frowned at him disapprovingly. "You will learn it out of the book, like most children."

Revelin wrinkled his nose. "But that's so _boring_," he complained. "It's—"

Shara shot him a stern look, and Revelin fell silent immediately, blushing pink. "I hope I have not spoiled you," Shara said warningly, "taking you across the world like this. If this has made you incapable of learning in a normal academic setting, the visits will stop."

"It hasn't," said Revelin in a small voice. He looked down at the ground, embarrassed, then remembered that his shara didn't like it when he looked at the ground, and stared instead at the buttons of his shara's shirt. "I can learn from a book, Shara," he said earnestly, peeking up at him. "I promise."

"Good," said Shara shortly. "Because you will need to when you start regular school. The professors at the Sahara School of Magic don't take their students across the world like I do with you."

Revelin privately thought, then, that the Sahara School of Magic sounded awfully boring. He didn't say so aloud, though. He was afraid that if he did, it might be enough to make Shara stop taking him everywhere.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

Please review! I am new to the author side of fan-fiction, so I treasure each review, both positive and negative…though, admittedly, I will treasure the negative reviews less.


	6. Chapter 6

This chapter was the HARDEST chapter to write. It was, however, sadly necessary. A child can't not know his grandfather is a Dark Lord forever. :)

Please also note: This chapter is more from Voldemort's point of view than Revelin's.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

Voldemort had pondered long and hard how to tell Revelin of his role in the war, an issue which became more important and more important with each passing day. With every trip the two took to Europe, Voldemort could see the question of who, exactly, his shara was growing larger and larger in the child's mind. Voldemort knew he couldn't just tell Revelin outright, since he suspected the shock would be overwhelming, but nor could he obviously keep it from him much longer. The boy had to understand and accept his place in the world and in the war.

He would have to tell Revelin slowly, he had decided. Give the child bits and pieces of information for him to digest over time and get used to. Over the years Voldemort had greatly limited the child's exposure to the war, for the simple reason that the publicity concerning it was overwhelmingly biased against Voldemort, and he didn't want the child's mind twisted by the lies spread by those dunderheads at the _Daily Prophet_. Revelin may have been incredibly bright, but he was also four and impressionable. Voldemort didn't want him getting the wrong impression.

Voldemort knew he would have to have a discussion with Revelin about the proper place of muggles, but he also knew he would need the right opportunity to do so. This conversation about muggles would be important, so Voldemort wanted Revelin to remember it clearly. Thus it had to be distinct from other conversations the two had. This meant their discussion couldn't resemble an academic lecture. Voldemort would have to wait for the opportunity to broach the subject in casual conversation.

The opportunity came when they were in North America, in the mountains of Colorado. Voldemort had brought Revelin there so the two could hunt down Nogtails. From the research Voldemort had done, an unusually high number of the piglet-like creatures cursed the ranches in the area. When they went, it was a beautiful June morning. The sun was warm and pleasant without being too hot, and only a tiny breath of wind somehow made it through the mountain passes.

A Nogtail wasn't hard to find. After only an hour of passing by the ranches in the area, Voldemort stopped at the edge of a property and pointed. "Look, Revelin. A Nogtail must live here. Tell me why."

Revelin wasn't tall enough to see over the edge of the ranch's fence, so he stuck his arms out rather demandingly and Voldemort picked him up. It was strange how quickly Voldemort had become accustomed to doing that—holding the child. Now he did it without thought. Revelin wrapped his arms around Voldemort's neck and peered out at the ranch.

"Everything's dying," he said flatly, after a moment of observation. The boy's sharp eyes flicked from the grass, which had yellowed, to the cows in the distance, which were thin and stumbling.

"Exactly," said Voldemort in satisfaction. "The Nogtail's presence curses the land. Now tell me"—he flicked his wand, blasted a hole in the ranch's wards, and catapulted them both neatly over the fence—"where on the ranch would I find this Nogtail?"

"In the pig sty," answered Revelin firmly, as Voldemort carried him in long strides across the pasture and up to a collection of buildings on a small knoll. "It poses as a piglet and suckles an ordinary pig. As long as it does so, the farm or ranch is cursed."

They came up a grumpy-looking, old wizard in muggle overalls, and Revelin's legs tightened around Voldemort's waist nervously, but the wizard didn't notice them, as Voldemort had known he would. "Don't worry, child," he said in amusement, standing right next to the wizard, who continued to stare out at his fields with a worried look on his weathered face. "He can't see or hear us."

Revelin seemed to be examining the wizard, his eyes fixed on the man's face, so Voldemort swung him gently around and strode up to the pig sty in the distance.

"Can you tell which piglet it is?" Voldemort asked, once they were next to it. Revelin scrambled from his arms and propped himself up on the pig sty's fence, standing on a lower muddy board and bracing his hands on the uppermost board, leaning precariously over the fence to get a good look at the piglets. Voldemort grabbed the back of the child's legs to make sure he didn't fall face-first into the mud.

Revelin observed the animals for a moment, then glanced back at Voldemort, smiled mischievously, and mock-whispered, "I think it's the one staring up at me suspiciously."

Voldemort glanced over the side of the fence. Sure enough, one of the little piglets had tensed up on the sty floor, its beady black eyes fixed on Voldemort and Revelin. "I think you are right," said Voldemort mildly.

He leaned forward a little bit, to get a closer look, and the Nogtail squealed in alarm. In a flash it had leapt over one of the other piglets, its squeal panicky, and rocketed out of the sty, speeding like a bullet down the ranch's gravel road and around the side of the barn. Voldemort let it go, his eyes following it as disappeared from sight. When its squeals had finally faded, Voldemort glanced back at Revelin to see the child frowning.

"It's not very smart, is it?" he asked, his brow furrowed. "I mean, if it hadn't stared at me so obviously, I might not have been able to guess what it was, and it wouldn't have had to run."

"Few magical creatures, wizards included, are smart," said Voldemort dryly, picking Revelin back up and setting him on his hip.

He strode down the gravel path, past the wizard, and Revelin twisted in Voldemort's grip to get a better look at the man. "The Nogtail will come back," he pointed out, sounding a little confused. "We didn't get rid of it the proper way. Shouldn't we tell the man what's causing his problem, so he can get rid of it for good?"

Voldemort stopped walking and glanced down at the child, shifting him to look at him more directly. Revelin's expression was anxious, worried. He seemed honestly concerned for the man..

The child's concern irritated Voldemort, but he squashed his irritation so as not to alarm Revelin. This was exactly the type of wishy-washy thinking so prevalent in children and the members of the Light side. It was Voldemort's responsibility to crush it before it got out of hand.

"Child," he said, trying but not entirely succeeding to keep the exasperation out of his voice. "That man is an experienced magical rancher in an area where Nogtails are common. His ranch has all the prominent signs of a Nogtail infestation, and yet it hasn't occurred to him that he might have a Nogtail. Sometimes, Revelin, you deserve what you get."

Revelin's brow furrowed, as if he found the concept difficult to grasp. "So the Nogtail is…a punishment for the man's stupidity?"

That was an excellent way for Revelin to look at it. Voldemort grasped at the opportunity. "The _stupid_ and the _weak_," he emphasized, "deserve what's coming to them. Do you understand, child?"

Revelin was silent for a long time. Voldemort shifted through the child's mind. The boy did understand, sort of, but he didn't seem really like it. However, Voldemort watched as the child considered the fact that this was what his shara was telling him, and his shara was always right, so this must be right…The boy nodded at last. Voldemort smiled and resumed walking down the drive. As they exited the ranchland and turned right on the road, heading towards a small town, Revelin, who had obviously been thinking a great deal on Voldemort's words, asked him suddenly, "What if someone is smart but weak?"

Voldemort glanced down at him in surprise. "What do you mean?"

Revelin's brow furrowed. "Well," he said slowly, "what if someone is a very weak wizard, but is also very smart? Where do they belong in the world, Shara?"

Voldemort's lips twisted into an amused smile. Sometimes, with Revelin being as intelligent as he was, he forgot how sheltered he had kept the child. "A wizard's power," he said, amusement coating his voice, "is very closely related to his intelligence. Smart wizards study hard and become powerful. The only time you see a weak wizard who is smart is if the wizard has some sort of illness."

"And what happens to them?" Revelin asked, suddenly anxious. Voldemort glanced down at him curiously. The child seemed rather concerned with the fate of such wizards.

"If they are intelligent," said Voldemort slowly, watching Revelin's face carefully, curiously—what thought was bothering the child?—"they find a way to make themselves indispensible to wizards who are both intelligent and powerful."

Revelin bit his lip. It was a sure sign the child was anxious about something, because it meant he had momentarily forgotten Voldemort's rule about him not biting his lip. Voldemort waited, sure something that had upset Revelin so much would be too much for the child to contain.

Sure enough, a second later the boy asked, in a small voice, "Am I i-i-nd-d-dispensible"—he had difficulties pronouncing the word—"to you?" He peered up at Voldemort anxiously.

Voldemort stilled, for once, completely flabbergasted. What on Earth had made the child think that he wasn't indispensible to Voldemort…?

_Oh_. Children.

This was obviously a topic of great distress for Revelin, but Voldemort couldn't prevent the amusement from lacing his voice as he said, "Child, you are _completely_ indispensible to me."

If possible, Revelin looked both relieved and worried. "But what did I _do _to become indi—indi—indi—"

"Indispensible," Voldemort finished for him.

"That."

It was a good question. How _had_ Revelin become completely indispensible, as Voldemort had claimed without a second's thought? The answer came to him from so many different directions that at last Voldemort simply said, "You exist."

Revelin's brow furrowed. "But—"

"You are my offspring," interrupted Voldemort sternly. "And though now you are weak in that you are vulnerable, because you're not old enough to cast spells yet, when you are older you will be both strong and powerful."

"But how do you know?" pressed Revelin anxiously.

"Because you are _my _child," said Voldemort firmly. Because Revelin was his blood. Because Revelin was given to him by Destiny. Because Revelin had discovered a second use for gillyweed.

Revelin appeared uncertain for a while, but eventually Voldemort felt acceptance slide across the child's mind. Satisfied, he resumed walking to the town in the distance.

"What about muggles?" Revelin asked, as the town grew larger and larger.

Voldemort's hand clenched at the new turn the conversation had taken. "What about them?" he bit out. The very thought of muggles revolted him.

"Where do they fit in the world?" Revelin asked curiously.

"At the bottom," said Voldemort flatly. "They are weak, because they have no magic at all, and they are too stupid to be indispensible."

"How do you know they're stupid?" asked Revelin curiously.

"I've met more muggles than I would prefer," said Voldemort darkly, his mind flicking back to the orphanage. His grip on Revelin's back tightened slightly.

"But all muggles?" Revelin asked skeptically. "How do you know every single one of them is stupid?"

Voldemort gave him a sharp glance. It wasn't like Revelin to doubt him. The earlier conversation must have deeply unsettled him, for him to think this way. Seeing Voldemort's disapproving expression, Revelin shrunk down a little, frightened.

Voldemort frowned. Now that the question had been asked, Voldemort knew he had to answer it, or it would grow and grow in Revelin's mind until it was a problem. Sighing in exasperation, he swung Revelin off his hip and plopped him on the ground, then kneeled down next to them so they were eye to eye.

"I know muggles are stupid," he said, "the way we both know that dogs are stupid. The smartest dog in the world isn't as smart as a human. Would you agree?"

Revelin nodded slowly, a frown on his face. His brow furrowed. "But—" he started. He glanced over his shoulder to where the muggle town rose from valley. "But muggles aren't like dogs, are they? They can build things!"

Voldemort's lip curled. To him, muggles were much worse than dogs. Ire rose in him, that Revelin was continuing this line of questioning, but he squashed it. It was imperative that Revelin understand this, and it wouldn't help if Voldemort got angry with him.

"Yes," Voldemort bit out, "muggles can build things, much like wizards can. There are things that wizards do that muggles can also do. Just like there are things that wizards can do that dogs can also do. Wizards and muggles can build buildings. Wizards, muggles, and dogs can eat and sleep and hunt. Just because we have something in _common_," Voldemort appeared distasteful, "with another type of creature, child, doesn't mean they are the same as us. Wizards can understand all muggle concepts, but there are some concepts that muggles can't comprehend and wizards can, no matter what—that is, namely, the higher arts of magic. Muggles can't understand and appreciate them. This makes them less than us. Wizards are _superior _because of this. "

Revelin seemed to find this idea curious, but as Voldemort brushed gently against his mind, he saw the boy begin to accept it, because if his shara, who knew everything, told him something, it had to be true. As Voldemort watched, the child's mind began to restructure itself, reorganizing the boy's understanding of the world into a hierarchy, with wizards on top and muggles on bottom. It was a rather fascinating change to watch, and it pleased Voldemort immensely.

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Dorcas Meadowes and Emmeline Vance had disappeared. This could have only happened because of one thing: someone had tipped them off that Voldemort wanted them. Voldemort knew there were only two possibilities as to how this could have happened: (1) Peter Pettigrew was actually a spy for the Order, and consequently the best actor and Occlumens the world had ever seen, or (2) Someone in his Inner Circle had betrayed him. Voldemort believed the first option was highly unlikely, to the point of being ludicrous, but the second option was also difficult to swallow.

It meant someone he had trusted had deceived him. Deceived _him_, Lord Voldemort, the most powerful wizard in the world! It made Voldemort blind with rage. Every time he thought about it, his hands clenched, his breathing quickened, red clouded his vision, and he had to fight down the urge to summon his Inner Circle Death Eaters one by one and break their minds till he found the bastard that had betrayed him. But _no_, he couldn't do that, as much as he wanted to.

For one, his Inner Circle was useful and he shouldn't destroy it needlessly. For another, he had to be rational about this. He could _use_ this. That there was a spy in his Inner Circle in whom Dumbledore was placing his trust could be used to Voldemort's advantage, now that Voldemort knew about it. It was just a matter of narrowing it down to who the spy could be.

To deceive Voldemort, the spy had to be both an excellent actor and incredibly intelligent. That eliminated Crabbe, Goyle, and Bellatrix, Crabbe and Goyle because they were as dumb as rocks, and Bellatrix because she didn't have the subtlety and acting skills necessary to be a spy if her life depended on it. The spy would also have to have very little to lose, since he would know that upon discovery Voldemort would hunt him and his family down.

Voldemort thought it unlikely the spy had children—or, indeed, any close family. That still left an uncomfortably large number of suspects: Rookwood, Travers, Snape, Gibbon, Macnair, Rowle, Selwyn. Not to mention Barty Crouch Jr., who came from a predominantly Light family, and the younger Mulciber, who would have the incentive—maybe he had found out Voldemort had sacrificed his father…? Voldemort resolved to watch each of them closely, and indeed, feed them false information to see what happened.

He also started planning the spy's demise, for when he found out who it was and no longer needed to leak false information. The dementors, after all, were always hungry.

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Voldemort was able to bring up the topic of the war with Revelin later that summer.

They were in Hong Kong. It was late August, and Voldemort had brought Revelin there to experience Ghost Festival.

"What can you tell me about the Festival?" Voldemort had asked him, early that afternoon.

Revelin's arms and legs were wrapped tightly around Voldemort's neck and waist, respectively, and he gazed around with big, frightened eyes. All around Hong Kong, scores of ghosts floated around like a thick fog, conversing with each other and the few wizards who could see them. Not four yards away, a richly-dressed Chinese lady floated over the water, wringing her hands and muttering to herself in a slightly echoing voice. She had a knife protruding from her back.

"I-It's—" Revelin started, his voice wavering, then fell abruptly silent as the ghost of a Mongol warrior stormed by. He stared after its retreating form with wide eyes.

Voldemort prodded him gently. "The ghosts can't hurt you, Revelin. They're dead."

Revelin's grip on Voldemort didn't loosen, but he did manage to stammer out, as another ghost passed by, uncomfortably close, "The g-ghosts c-come h-here because o-of the T-Taoist sh-shrines."

"Very good, Revelin," said Voldemort. Then, seeing that the boy wasn't going to be able to say anything else, he explained, just in case the child didn't know any of it, "The ancient Taoist magicians across much of China, Malaysia, and Singapore built shrines they believed allowed them to connect closely with the Earth's energy. Inexplicably, however, during this month's lunar cycle, the moon and the shrines interact in such a way that they act as a magnet for ghosts, drawing hundreds of thousands of them from all across the world during this month alone. So many ghosts come that even the muggles have figured out something strange happens during this time. They celebrate the Ghost Festival too. The whole occurrence is a bit of a mystery." Voldemort's eyes glowed as he thought about it. He planned on studying the whole thing in detail once he had taken over the world. "Necromancers," he added, "have studied the phenomenon for centuries without coming up with any agreed-upon explanation for the behavior."

Voldemort glanced down and realized Revelin may not have heard a word he was saying. The child's eyes were fixed on an Indian ghost juggling his head around. Voldemort could feel fear radiating off the boy as he stared at it.

Voldemort frowned. The child's fear of ghosts couldn't be allowed to persist. It was a silly thing for the grandson of a Dark Lord to be afraid of.

"You!" Voldemort said imperiously in Hindi, pointing across the street directly at the juggling ghost.

The ghost froze in its juggling, then grabbed its head with both hands and turned it slowly to face Voldemort. The expression on its face was one of both fear and astonishment.

"Come _here_," Voldemort commanded. _Or else _was implied.

There wasn't much a wizard could do to harm a ghost, but this ghost obviously didn't think it wise to cross Voldemort. Ghostly sweat appeared on its brow, and it plopped its head back on its body and floated over.

Upon seeing what it was doing, Revelin gasped in horror, looked up at Voldemort with an expression of great betrayal, and then buried his face in the crook of Voldemort's neck, trembling. His arms and legs clutched Voldemort like steel. Voldemort wouldn't have been able to pry off the child if he had tried.

"My child needs to learn not to be afraid of you," Voldemort informed the ghost coldly, once it hovered only a foot or two away.

He looked down at Revelin and nudged him in the side. "Revelin, look up."

Revelin's grip tightened impossibly. "I don't want to," he said in a small voice.

Voldemort gazed down at him sternly. Rebellions from Revelin were rare and not tolerated. "_Revelin_," Voldemort said warningly. "You will _not _disobey me." Revelin's shoulders tensed, and Voldemort said, a little more gently, "Do you not trust me to not let anything bad happen to you?"

Revelin was still for a moment, then slowly his head turned, so that he was peeking up at Voldemort worriedly. "Are you _sure_ it can't hurt me?" he whispered.

"I am positive."

Slowly, Revelin craned his head around and looked directly up at the ghost. Voldemort could feel his little heart racing in his chest.

The ghost smiled. Revelin cringed back. "Namaste," the ghost said in its echoing voice. It stepped back and gave a rather flourishing bow.

"N-namaste," Revelin whispered back nervously. The child knew the basic greetings in Hindi from their travels in India.

The ghost then rattled off something else in Hindi, and Revelin looked up at Voldemort questioningly. Voldemort smiled rather smugly. "He says that you look a lot like me," he said, for interpretation.

The ghost hovered a little closer, and Revelin stared at it cautiously. Voldemort could tell the child was calming down, his fear fading somewhat.

"Touch him," ordered Voldemort quietly. "See that he cannot hurt you."

Revelin paused for a long time, then he cautiously extended his hand. Voldemort could see his arm trembling.

"Don't be afraid," said Voldemort. The child bit his lip, appearing to steel himself, and surged forward and swiped his hand through the ghost.

Revelin cried out in surprise and withdrew his hand quickly. "He's cold!" he exclaimed, looking up at Voldemort rather accusingly.

"Yes," said Voldemort, unaffected by his accusing gaze. "But not solid. He can't hurt you. See?"

Revelin appeared unconvinced. Voldemort realized he would have to take drastic measures. He turned to the ghost. "Try to punch him," he ordered in Hindi.

The ghost appeared terrified. "B-but—"

"_Now._"

The ghost could tell, wisely, that there was nothing for it. Still looking terrified, he pulled back his arm and took a wild swing. Revelin cried out in alarm, his grip on Voldemort painful, but the fist and arm rushed through his chest and Voldemort's like a cold wind and then faded.

When it was over, Revelin was very still for a long time, as if processing what had just happened.

"Do you understand now," asked Voldemort after the silence had gone on long enough, "that they can't hurt you even if they tried?"

Revelin was silent for a moment more. Then he slowly nodded. "But," he said quickly, anxiously, "I don't like it when they touch me."

"It is an unpleasant sensation," Voldemort acknowledged.

Revelin looked up at him cautiously, and then over at the ghost, who hovered awkwardly nearby. Voldemort slipped into the child's mind and saw the fear fading. After a minute Revelin's grip loosened, and the child slid voluntarily to the ground. His hand immediately clutched the edge of Voldemort's robe, but that was enough to let Voldemort know the child would be all right. The fear would fade fully soon enough.

Voldemort turned to the ghost. His voice was cold. "_Leave_."

The ghost appeared only too happy to do so.

After that, the child seemed to enjoy the Festival. In fact, he even seemed to take a liking to the ghosts, as the afternoon wore on. Revelin found a group of them that spoke Arabic floating near a noodle restaurant and spent a good hour or so asking them what it was like to be dead, Voldemort leaning against a nearby wall and keeping an eye on him.

As afternoon started fading into evening, lights started appearing on the slow-moving river. "They're lotus lanterns," said Voldemort, upon seeing Revelin staring at them in fascination. "The ghosts like them."

Indeed, the ghosts had clustered around the river like a thick cloud. Revelin could peer through them to see the lanterns shining like large fireflies on the river. He was craning his head. Voldemort could tell he wanted to get a closer look, though it meant getting closer to a multitude of ghosts. This pleased Voldemort.

"Go put a lantern on the river," he suggested, pulling a knut out of his pocket and handing it to Revelin. "They're selling them right over there." He tilted his head toward the corner of the building where there stood a stand covered in orange and red lanterns. A line full of children had formed in front of it.

Revelin needed no encouragement. He jogged over to the stand eagerly, turning the knut over and over in his hands. Voldemort leaned up against a light-post, his hands in his pockets, keeping an eye on him.

One could tell Revelin was different from the other children in the line just by looking at him. The other children, though all of different ethnicities, acted much the same: rather rowdy, shifting backwards and forwards impatiently. Two boys ahead of Revelin were shoving each other around, nasty grins on their faces. Revelin, on the other hand, was very composed, standing quietly and without fuss, waiting patiently for his turn with the vendor. He glanced over at Voldemort and smiled.

When Revelin got up to the vendor, he chose a lantern with a paper snake slithering through the petals. Once he had it and was cradling it in his arms, he looked to the shore of the river, where a gaggle of children were dumping their lanterns, and then back at Voldemort questioningly. Voldemort tilted his head towards the children, granting permission. Revelin beamed at him and ran to join the others.

Voldemort watched quietly from afar as Revelin set his lantern on the water. A girl next to Revelin pointed to his lantern and said something. Revelin said something back. The two began to talk. Intrigued, Voldemort tilted his head to the side and watched more closely.

It didn't seem like a friendly conversation. The girl had her hands on her hips in a stance that made her look remarkably similar to Molly Weasley, or indeed, any self-righteous Gryffindor. Revelin's hands were clenched at his side, and he spoke to her tightly. In a minute a few other children had joined the conversation, all, seemingly on the girl's side. One of them, a much larger boy, sneered and shoved Revelin in the chest. Revelin stumbled back a few feet.

Sudden, unexpected rage surged through Voldemort, and his hand inched towards his wand, ready curse the imbecilic bullies who had dared touched _his _grandchild. Revelin, however, beat him to it. Water erupted from the river like a tidal wave, dousing all the children save one. The others stared at Revelin in horror, stunned into silence for a moment. Then they turned tail and ran. A few of the assembled wizards and witches whispered in surprise—_strong accidental magic_, they murmured amongst themselves—and Revelin ran back to Voldemort. His face was scrunched up. His chin wobbled. His eyes shone with unshed tears.

Voldemort knelt down and allowed the child to launch himself into his shara's arms. For a while Voldemort said nothing, and the child sobbed openly into his shoulder.

It made Voldemort uncomfortable to have Revelin crying—it was so rare, and Voldemort did not do crying children well—and yet, at the same time, it made him angry. He wondered what the little idiots had said to upset Revelin this way. Whatever it was, it was important for Revelin to understand that nothing imbeciles say should ever have the power to upset him.

"What happened?" he asked at last, rocking Revelin back and forth. He hoped the child would stop crying soon. "What did they say?"

Revelin hiccupped. "Th-they s-said th-that I sh-shouldn't p-put a s-snake in th-the l-lantern b-because s-snakes w-were n-nasty a-and i-it w-would b-be bad l-luck." The child was so distraught Voldemort decided not to chastise him for stammering so badly.

"They're idiots," said Voldemort flatly, in response to Revelin's statement. "They have no idea what they're talking about."

"I _know!_" Revelin wailed. He shifted in Voldemort's arms, and he was suddenly much more coherent. His little fists clenched in sudden anger. "That's what I _told_ her, but she wasn't even interested. She didn't even seem to know or care when I told her that we were in China, and that snakes weren't considered bad luck, and that there was even an entire year dedicated to snakes—and then she asked me what 'dedicated' means, like a dumbie, and I told her, and she and the others started making fun of me, saying that I was a dork, and I asked her what a dork was, and they started laughing—"

"They're idiots," said Voldemort again, more firmly, angry. He pulled back and met Revelin's eyes, placing a finger over the child's mouth as he opened it to say something else. "Unfortunately, child, there are a lot of people like that in the world, people that are so stupid that they can't recognize or appreciate a genius—like you—when they meet one. They are _morons_ and completely beneath you." His voice resonated with anger.

Revelin had slowly stopped crying, but he was still sniffling. He peered up at Voldemort with wet eyes. "But there were so many of them," he said in a small voice.

Voldemort's lips tightened. Fury thrummed through his veins. There had been a lot of morons at the orphanage and Hogwarts as well. "Unfortunately," he said tightly, "you just experienced what idiots like to do. Whenever idiots are losing an argument, they gang up and force their will through sheer numbers on people that are inherently better than him." Loathing filled Voldemort as he thought of it.

Revelin looked appalled. "But I don't want to do what idiots tell me to do," he said in a horrified whisper.

The opening was so perfect, Voldemort couldn't pass it up. "Maybe you won't someday," said Voldemort smoothly. He plucked Revelin off the ground and settled him on his hip.

Revelin stared at Voldemort in bewilderment. "What do you mean, Shara?"

Voldemort pulled out his wand and cast a quick charm, so that no one could eavesdrop on their conversation.

"That's what the war in Europe is about, child," explained Voldemort, as he strode with Revelin down the busy boulevard. "See, Europe has a lot of people like the ones you just met, who are afraid of things they don't understand, like snakes…or werewolves…or giants…or the Dark Arts. So, because they are stupid, weak, and afraid, they gather together and elect stupid and weak people to rule over them, and they expect others, who are better than they are, who are more powerful, more intelligent, who are _special_, to follow the rules the weak people make, and they force them to do so through sheer numbers."

"But that's terrible!" protested Revelin.

"It is," Voldemort agreed. "So there is a war. The smart and special people, the powerful ones from powerful families, they are fighting to reorganize society, so that idiots like those children you just met can stop imposing their will on special people, like you and me. The most powerful people will make the rules. If that side wins, you, child, will never be ganged up on like that again. People like those children you just met will be put in their proper place."

Voldemort could tell that in his hurt and anger, Revelin liked this idea. He liked it _a lot_. The child's approval of the rebellion resonated throughout his mind.

They fell silent for a while. Voldemort came to a stop at a far more secluded area of the boulevard, away from the ghosts and lights. Revelin grew heavy in his arms, his thoughts murky. Voldemort could tell the child was almost asleep.

Before the boy fully nodded off, however, he asked, quietly, "Shara?"

"Yes?"

"Who will be on top, if the other side wins? Who is the most powerful?"

Voldemort paused.

"_I_ am."

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Please review! I adore reviews!


	7. Chapter 7

I hope you enjoy reading this chapter almost as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Also, if there are few more typos in this chapter, forgive me: I was rather tired when I edited it.

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On Halloween morning the following year, his shara entered their classroom, stopped in front of the blackboard, and stared down at him thoughtfully. Revelin suppressed the urge to fidget under his shara's gaze and waited for him to speak, feeling anxious. He knew his shara well enough to know he was about to say something important.

After a moment of tense silence, Shara lifted his chin slightly and said, "I think we will go to England tonight."

Silence ensued. It took a moment for the words to sink in. When they did, shock and then excitement swept through Revelin, swelling in his chest like a warm balloon. "Really?" he squealed, his eyes shining.

He had been wanting to go to England ever since his shara had told him he _couldn't _go. And though Revelin knew why his shara forbade it—England was the center of everything, where his shara was the most powerful _and_ had the most enemies—it still didn't prevent him from wanting to go there with a strange, desperate longing, one that made his eyes always wonder to the isle on the map and trace it with his finger on the globe. England was his shara's home, where his shara had been raised, where his and his shara's family was from. England was where his shara went by a name other than Cadmus Ellwood, one that Revelin wasn't supposed to tell anyone for _anything_.

"Really," Shara confirmed, his lips quirking up briefly at the side. "Tonight is All Hallows Eve. It also the 1000th anniversary, or so legend says, of the Founder's pact to build Hogwarts. There will be a celebration in Hogsmeade this evening."

It sounded like it could be as much fun as Holi had been, when they had celebrated it in India the past spring! Revelin rocked back and forth in excitement.

"And I have decided I would be remiss," Shara continued, seemingly deciding to ignore this excessive display of emotion, "If I made you miss it. Now"—his voice turned serious—"there are several precautions we have to take."

Revelin stopped his rocking and leaned forward to pay attention, suddenly serious. He had a funny feeling that if he didn't fulfill Shara's instructions exactly, Shara might change his mind. Shara already looked a little doubtful.

"I understand, Shara," said Revelin earnestly, his eyes big as he waited for his shara to speak. He hoped he was giving the impression that he could be trusted to travel to England.

"Good." Shara paused, an expression crossing his face as if he was having an internal debate. "Very well," he said after a moment, almost reluctantly. "Here's how the evening is going to go…"

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Richard Green had been having a hair-on-fire day. Everything, it seemed, that could have gone wrong, had gone wrong, and it had started early. The security wards they had put around Hogsmeade last night had begun inexplicably crumbling this morning, and there had been a full scale alert and an ensuing panicked stampede, with Aurors and Hit Wizards apparating in and buzzing around like flies, wands drawn, and villagers fleeing in terror till someone had realized that the Ward-Masters had gotten a rune wrong, and that was what had caused the wards to fall, not You-Know-Who. This mass panic had put all the organizers behind, resulting in time constraints, security lapses, and all sorts of clerical errors and questionably legal occurrences. In short, the Ministry's highly detailed, air-tight, security plan for setting up both the Celebration and Celebration security, which had taken some months to put together, had gone to pieces in a matter of minutes. It was a miracle anything had gotten done at all.

Now, however, that was all over. And though Richard was fairly sure there had been a few holes in security earlier, that situation had now been rectified. The wards were up, security guards lined the perimeter of Hogsmeade and the path to the castle, where the professors were conducting tours, and the party was in full swing. A lot of people had already arrived, and the high-security guests, namely, the Longbottoms and the Potters, had already been safely escorted inside the village.

Richard shifted from his overseeing post. It was six o'clock, and families were arriving in droves, passing through the rather intensive security checkpoints and then trudging down the hillside path to the village, which was lit by floating candles and orange, grinning jack-o-lanterns. Richard's eyes wondered briefly to the village, some hundred yards below in the valley, lit up by the warm orange glow of thousands of Halloween lights. Even from this far above it he could hear the distant sound of children's laughter.

His hand clenched at his side. It made him angry to know that such a joyous celebration was a prime target for You-Know-Who, that the man, if he could be even called that, would surely destroy the occasion if he ever managed to get to it. That was why security was so tight tonight: the Ministry had wanted to make sure the place was impregnable, so that You-Know-Who wouldn't even _try_ to disrupt the party.

Still, Richard worried. That security lapse earlier today…

No, he was being ridiculous. The security lapse hadn't been some planned disruption. It had been completely accidental. There was no way You-Know-Who could have learned about it in time to take advantage of it. Richard turned his attention back to the families arriving.

He knew a lot of them, worked with them. There was Mafalda Hopkirk with her two adorable nieces, Arnold Peasegood with his wife and children, Hamish MacFarlan, the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, with his wife, children, and grandchildren. So many good people.

His eyes flicked down the security queue, searching for others he knew, when they landed on two he didn't. They were obviously father and son, these two. The man was probably Richard's age, fit, with the tiniest hint of silver in his hair. A handsome man. Of the son, Richard could see little, except that he was small and had dark hair. He was standing next to his father, clutching his hand as they waited. The others in line prevented Richard from getting a good look at the child.

A little curious, for he had never seen the man before, Richard wandered down to the security lines. He made a show of checking up on the other security guards, greeting a few familiar faces and patting the Minister's young nephew on the head before making his way to the man's line.

He got there just as the man and his son reached the security point.

"Names?" asked Stan, the hit wizard assigned to that checkpoint. He cast a _Lumo_s to get a good look at both the man and the child.

"Cadmus Ellwood," said the man. "And my son, Revelin."

Ellwood. Richard had never heard that surname before—though, being a half-blood, and his mother not caring much about blood status—it wasn't entirely surprising. The man could have been muggleborn, but Richard somehow doubted it. Cadmus Ellwood sounded like a very pureblood name, and something about the way the man carried himself, more formally than those around him, seemed like something only someone from an old line would do.

The man, Cadmus Ellwood, presented his papers to the security official, and after inspecting them for a minute and casting a few detective spells over Mr. Ellwood and his son, Stan waved them on.

The detection spells were mandatory for all party-goers, even children. The Ministry hadn't put it past You-Know-Who to send his Death Eaters in disguised as parents with young children. All children were tested to affirm their age. But this man, with his young son, didn't strike Richard as a Death Eater. He was much too quiet, too polite. He didn't hand his papers to Stan with a sneer on his face, the way pureblood supremacists like the Malfoys, Blacks, or Lestranges were bound to do. No…there had been a sort of arrogance and obnoxiousness in all the Death Eaters Richard had caught. This man had none of that. Though Richard had never heard of him, never met him, he was sure this man, this Cadmus Ellwood, was no Death Eater.

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Revelin seemed practically overwhelmed with excitement, and for once Voldemort didn't chastise him about jumping up and down on the balls of his feet—not because he suddenly approved of such behavior, but because it was necessary for Revelin to act as much like a normal child as possible.

As they entered the stream of festive witches and wizards pouring down the hillside path into Hogsmeade, Revelin could barely keep still. All around them people were chattering excitedly, waving their hands animatedly. Two families ahead, a boy a bit older than Revelin was tugging on his mother's arm and screaming demandingly, "_Mummy_, I want to see the _Shrieking_ _Shack!_"

It was even louder and more festive inside Hogsmeade. Voldemort actually had to pause for a moment to appreciate the full effect.

Orange and black coated everything. All the wooden panels of the buildings had been spelled pumpkin-orange and all the roofs a deep black. Banners and ribbons with grinning skulls and jack-o-lanterns hung everywhere. Along the main boulevard, games and stalls had been set up for both adults and children. In a corner stall, several grinning young witches were painting faces. A boy who had just had his done wandered away from them, the tiger stripes on his face shifting and curling in the candlelight. In the middle of the street, a long narrow pool had mysteriously appeared, where children, with their hands tied behind their back with candy-strings, were bobbing for golden apples, trying to snag them before the domesticated grindylows could eat them all. At the entrance to an alleyway, four wizards and witches stood on a small stage, gesturing wildly, telling some ghost story rather dramatically to a large group of spooked children. Voldemort noted that Salazar Slytherin seemed to be the villain of this particular tale.

Even the stores were in on the festivities. Honeydukes was advertising edible pumpkins and candied skulls. Zonko's was selling some product that momentarily turned heads into flaming skulls; a few feet away from Voldemort a group of Hogwarts students burst into laughter as one of their friends started burning. A sign outside of Dogweed and Deathcap promoted an exhibit of "The World's Most Poisonous Plants (Please Charm Your Children's Hands to their Sides)." In the Three Broomsticks, tables and tables of fortune tellers were reading fortunes. Inside Voldemort could see that pest Sybil Trelawney, her bangles jangling on her wrists as she shuffled a set of Tarot cards. From the horrified expressions of the children in front of her and the outraged expressions of the parents behind them, it was clear she had just predicted the children's deaths.

The atmosphere was fun, festive, cheerful, and joyful. In other words, it made Voldemort cringe. The Ministry had been advertising how _wonderful_ this celebration was going to be for months, and this commonplace affair was what they had been bragging about? Voldemort had to work very, very hard not to appear outwardly disdainful. His Death Eaters didn't seem to be quite as successful. About thirty yards away, the Malfoys stood rigidly on the side of the street, looking supremely uncomfortable. Voldemort knew as well as Lucius that to leave early would be unpopular and cast suspicion. Still, there was some enjoyment to be had in seeing a tiger-striped clown prance up to the Malfoys and, with a great flourishing bow, present a balloon flower to Narcissa. Lucius gave the clown a death glare as Narcissa stiffly accepted the flower. The clown danced away, and Voldemort had to grin wickedly at how absurd the Malfoy matriarch looked standing there stiffly on the street corner, holding a ridiculously large, flesh-colored balloon flower like it was something nasty.

As amusing as watching the Malfoys was, Voldemort didn't want to linger. He didn't want Cadmus Ellwood to attract the attention of any Death Eaters. "Come along," Voldemort said to Revelin, tugging him down the street. "You don't need to go bobbing for apples," he added, seeing the way Revelin's eyes were straying towards the treats. Bobbing for apples—how _undignified_.

"But they look so—"

At that moment a redheaded wizard stood up on a table and started yelling, "Tours of the Shrieking Shack starting in FIVE MINUTES! See Britain's most haunted dwelling! Tickets on sale now!" On cue, the child Voldemort had seen earlier started whining to his mother, "I want to _go_, Mummy!"

Revelin waited till they were past the sudden throng of people seeking tickets to say again, "But they look so _good_, Sh—Father!"

"You're hungry already?" Voldemort asked incredulously, stopping and staring down at him. "You ate dinner before coming here."

Revelin's cheeks tinged pink, and he didn't answer.

Voldemort shuffled through the child's mind, and he exhaled in exasperation. Sometimes, with Revelin being as brilliant and as studious as he was, Voldemort forgot that he was still just a child, only five years old. It was only to be expected that he occasionally have the wants of a five year old.

Revelin wanted candy. The child so rarely had the opportunity to have any, since Voldemort kept none in the riad. Voldemort was greatly tempted to deny it to him now, but eventually relented. One, Revelin would better blend in if he was munching on a sweet. Two, it _was_ a special occasion: despite the horribly plebian celebration, Voldemort agreed with everyone else that the night was significant. The millennial birthday of Hogwarts, his future residence, was a date to mark.

"I suppose we can compromise," said Voldemort at last. "No bobbing for apples, but you can buy something from Honeydukes. Is that agreeable?"

A broad smile spread across Revelin's face, and he nodded eagerly. He grabbed his shara's hand, and Voldemort followed the child as he weaved a path back through the loud, crowded streets to Honeydukes, from which issued the laughter and screams of children and the chattering of parents.

Voldemort eyed the entrance to the store distastefully. It made him want to vomit. He might become homicidal if he entered it. He fished in his pockets for a galleon, handed it to Revelin, and opened his mouth to tell the child to meet him back outside when he had made his purchase, when he caught a glimpse of a middle-aged man inside the store. His mouth snapped shut. It had been only a glimpse, but Voldemort had recognized that man. Arthur Griffiths. Voldemort had come across him, an associate of associates, in some of his more illegal transactions.

Voldemort wouldn't trust Arthur Griffiths near a child if his life depended on it. He knew what that man was. And those parents in there were letting their children run right past him, heedless of the danger! It served as just another example of the stupidity and hypocrisy of the Light. Light parents prided themselves at being so good at parenting, when in reality they were terrible at it—one only had to look at how their children turned out to see _that_—and not nearly suspicious enough of strangers, even ones who stood alone among a bunch of children with creepy smiles on their faces.

Voldemort turned to look down at Revelin. "I'm going inside with you."

Revelin's expression was one of complete and utter surprise, but Voldemort didn't feel compelled to explain. He tilted his head toward the door. "After you, child."

Still looking a bit stunned, Revelin entered the store, Voldemort following.

It was as bad as Voldemort had imagined it being. Somehow the decibel level had quintupled inside, with children's excited chattering echoing off the walls and floors. In the corner some Hogwarts' students, Gryffindors from their robes, were guffawing stupidly at something. It was so incredibly crowded that it was standing room only, with people shoving and elbowing each other to get anywhere. It made Voldemort's skin crawl. He resisted the urge to take out his wand and blast the people around him, then drag Revelin forcefully from the store. _Mudbloods and blood traitors, idiots and imbeciles…_

Revelin's hand slipped form his, and Voldemort's head snapped down. Revelin, little child that he was, had wriggled through a tiny gap in the crowd. Voldemort craned his head, but the child had disappeared completely from view. Growling in frustration, Voldemort shoved his way through the gap, peering around once he had made it through. The child was nowhere to be found. Voldemort felt as if something cold had washed over him.

"Revelin!" he called out, but his voice was lost in the chatter. It was not an experience Voldemort was used to. He pushed his way through a gaggle of young parents with their children, loathing having to touch any of them—_never _again was the child entering a crowded store!—but when he was past them, Revelin was still nowhere to be found.

A strange emotion gripped Voldemort when he realized he couldn't see the boy _anywhere_. Had he not been a Dark Lord, he would have labeled it as the first stirrings of panic—except Dark Lords, even when pretending to be parents, did _not _panic. "Revelin!" he called, a little louder. No answer. The strange, panic-like feeling grew stronger. Damn that child!

"Revelin!" he called again, shoving through the crowd, rather rudely through a gaggle of Hufflepuffs, who protested until Voldemort shot them a death glare. They flinched back. Voldemort fought his way to the back of the shop, his skin crawling from having to touch so many mudbloods—the child was going to be in _so _much trouble when Voldemort finally found him—till at last he burst free of the crowd near the door to the stockroom.

His eyes searched the teeming mass, flicking from the teetering towers of Chocolate frogs to the trees of ice mice, and an inexplicable wave of relief swept through him when he spied Revelin near the far back corner of the store, studying the chocolate wands with interest.

He should have known. Revelin couldn't wait to get his wand.

Voldemort's relief at seeing the child evaporated when he saw who was standing not a few feet away from him, eyeing him with interest. Fury so strong Voldemort had to close his eyes, sure they were turning red, rushed through him, and Voldemort forced it down so he could control his appearance. When he was able to open his eyes once more, Griffiths had taken a step closer to Revelin. The boy was just too easy of a target for a slimeball like Griffiths to pass up—an attractive, quiet child, standing apart from other children, with no apparent guardian in sight.

Little did Griffiths know that that child's guardian was the Darkest wizard who had ever lived. His mistake.

As Voldemort shoved his way through the crowd, he started planning Arthur Griffiths' demise. It was difficult, because he couldn't decide which castration technique would be the most painful. Maybe he could try them all. Technique #1, Reattachment Charm, Technique #2, Reattachment Charm, Technique #3…

Voldemort made it to Revelin's side just as Griffiths' hand was descending towards the child's shoulder. He caught the man's wrist before he was able to make contact, digging his fingers so deeply into his arm that the wizard gasped in pain. His eyes were alarmed and shocked when they flew up to see Voldemort standing there, a cold, terrible expression on his face. Next to them, Revelin looked up in surprise. It was obvious that the boy had had no idea what was going on around him.

Voldemort stared straight into the man's terrified eyes. He could see his own reflection in them. His eyes briefly flashed red. "I know what you are," Voldemort hissed so lowly only Griffiths could hear. He jerked the man's wrist, and it cracked. Griffiths moaned in pain. A tear slid down his face. It was so crowded and loud, no one noticed. "And when I leave Hogsmeade tonight," Voldemort continued, his eyes boring into Griffiths', "I am going to hunt you down," he stepped closer, and his voice dropped to a venomous whisper, "torture you, and _kill _you_._"

Griffiths looked ready to faint from terror. Voldemort stepped back, releasing the man's wrist. "I am going to give you a head start," he said coldly. His mouth twisted. "For my own amusement." For someone as pathetic as Griffiths', there was nowhere he could run that Voldemort couldn't find him. He jerked his head toward the door. "Leave. _Now_."

Whimpering in terror—Voldemort could practically smell the man's fear—Griffiths shoved his way frantically through the crowd, eliciting cries of outrage from parents as he stumbled over their children. Voldemort watched him as he left with cold satisfaction, anger like ice coating his insides.

When Griffiths had finally left, Voldemort turned and stared down at Revelin.

An ominous silence ensued. Revelin shuffled on his feet, twisting the chocolate wand in his hands nervously.

"You are angry with me?" he asked finally, in a small voice.

A storm of emotions erupted in Voldemort, raging through him. Fury was predominant among them. His hands clenched at his sides. "_Yes!" _ he hissed out in Arabic, his eyes practically glowing . "You left my side! _In England!_" His voice shook with rage. "You could have been _hurt—_or _taken_—or—!"

The child let out a pathetic little sound, almost like a sob, and Voldemort cut off as though silenced. Revelin's face had twisted up. His bottom lip trembled. His eyes shone with the promise of tears. He looked absolutely miserable and pathetic, like a kicked puppy.

It was as if the raging storm of Voldemort's fury had been put abruptly on hold. Another emotion filtered through him, sliding like a trickle of icy water from his head down his spine to his toes: shock.

He had _never _made Revelin cry before. It horrified him to know that his first instinct was to kneel down and give the child a hug.

Instead, he stood there frozen for a long while, the shock slowly filtering out of his system. It drained with it the feeling of utter rage that had been there earlier. His fists unclenched. Suddenly he felt exhausted.

He exhaled heavily. _Children_. He closed his eyes briefly and opened them again. "Just don't do it again, Revelin."

The child wiped his eyes, sniffling, and nodded quickly. He glanced down at the chocolate wand in his hand with a longing expression on his face. He peeked up at Voldemort through wet eyelashes. "Can I still get the chocolate wand?" he asked in a small voice.

Merlin _forbid_ this torturous experience be for nothing!

"Yes," said Voldemort wearily. He extended his hand, and Revelin clasped it tightly as they weaved their way to the back of the line. Of course the line practically wrapped around the entire perimeter of the store. As they settled in the back of it, and Voldemort got a good look at how long it was, his free hand curled at his side. The thought crossed his mind: _This had better be the best damn chocolate wand in the world._

As they waited in line, Revelin clutching Voldemort's hand tightly, Voldemort thought also, as the line inched forward, _This is why I did not raise Revelin's mother_.

The line moved _impossibly_ slowly. Voldemort couldn't begin to imagine why the imbecilic cashier couldn't move a little faster. He started gritting his teeth after a few minutes, especially as the store became more and more crowded. Much-despised faces browsed for candy. Sirius Black entered the store, roughhousing with James Potter. A few minutes later Rubeus Hagrid squeezed his bulk in. Voldemort loathed them all. It took all his concentration to prevent himself from glaring at them the way the rest of his Death Eaters would have.

_Must not draw attention…_

It was perhaps because he was so focused on not glaring death at the Order of the Phoenix members, or perhaps because it was just so _impossibly _loud in the damn store that nothing else could be heard, but Voldemort, at first, did not hear the screams. And when he did, he didn't believe what they were saying—because there was _no way_ what the people were screaming could _possibly _be true, because Voldemort hadn't _authorized _it, because his servants weren't _that_ stupid, because this evening couldn't _possibly _be going _that badly_—

But no, the screams were quite clear now.

The people outside were screaming, "_Death Eaters!_"

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Please review! And thank you to all the wonderful people who have reviewed! I really appreciate it.


	8. Chapter 8

Several Notes:

a. This is a very short chapter. Think of it more as like half a chapter.

b. I know I've kept a pretty consistent schedule of updating once a day, and this is actually the second day since my last update. The reason is that I've spent the past two days moving into my apartment for the upcoming school year. Fun stuff. That's also why the chapter is so short. I've been writing in odd, couple-of-minutes-of-free-time segments.

c. I had a reviewer ask if I was actually writing this as I go, or if I've already written it and am just releasing it over time. I am writing it as I release it. I realize that, if you look at my past chapters, that's a rate of 3-5k words per day. I don't really know what to say about that, except that I've always been a fast writer. That being said, however, the rate of my updates is going to slow down. School _is _starting. I won't be able to update every day, but I hope to be able to update every two to three days.

d. I also had a reviewer ask if Revelin would be going to Hogwarts. I don't think I can answer that without giving too much away.

That being said, enjoy this little chapter!

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Voldemort had, over the years, thought he had gotten a good grasp on the competency and idiocy level of the Wizarding population of Britain, that of his Death Eaters included.

He had obviously greatly miscalculated. He had been giving his Death Eaters far too much credit.

The whole situation was so completely and utterly _stupid,_ and consequently so _unexpected_, that as Honeydukes erupted into chaos, Voldemort just stood there, for the first time in decades completely frozen in surprise, his mind blank with shock.

A few feet away from him, Sirius Black let out a noise like an angry dog and snarled, "I can't _believe_ Voldemort is attacking Hogsmeade!"

Indeed. Voldemort couldn't believe it _either!_

As that thought crossed his mind, he felt his first emotion other than shock: anger. It thrummed in his veins, making his limbs tingle. Rage grew and swelled inside him, turning into a red-hot dragon, clawing at his chest. His breath came shallowly. Red clouded his vision. He could barely think straight, he was so angry. His hand itched towards his wand. All he wanted to do was march out there and _destroy_ those stupid, imbecilic —!

Something tugged urgently on his arm, but Voldemort couldn't let himself be distracted. He had to go and kill his Death Eaters, punish them all for doing this, for attacking without his permission—

The tugs became a little harder and, annoyed, Voldemort snapped his head down, teeth bared, wand raised. The little boy shrunk back, looking terrified, and something tugged at Voldemort's brain. He didn't want to hurt this child…

"_Shara!_" the boy sobbed, terrified tears shining in the corner of his eyes, and Voldemort snapped out of it. Horror washed over him like icy water. _He had almost cursed Revelin. _He took a step back, feeling dazed, as the reality of it set in. He lowered his wand. His chest heaved. He started breathing rapidly. Some strange emotion sent tingles down his arms and legs and made his wand tremble in his grasp.

The inside of the store had mostly emptied, but from outside, Voldemort could hear screams and cries, the booms and crackling of spells, the sound of walls tumbling. A mother nearby was shouting frantically for "Bobby! _Bobby!_" Meanwhile Voldemort and Revelin stood still, just staring at each other in horrified silence.

"Were you going to hurt me, Shara?" Revelin asked in a small, nervous voice, peeking up at his shara through wet eyelashes.

Something snapped in Voldemort. His eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared. "No, child," he said, his voice trembling with the effort to keep it gentle. "I was not going to, nor will I ever, hurt _you_." His voice lowered to a savage hiss, and he turned enraged eyes to the pandemonium outside. "I am, however, going to hurt _them—_"

A stray curse shattered the front of the store window, sending glass shards flying inside. Revelin cried out in alarm, crouching down into a small ball, his tiny hands over his head, but Voldemort had reacted quickly. The shards stopped dead in the air some two feet away from them, turned around, and shot like knives back to the Death Eater. He only had time to cry out in horror before they sliced him into bloody pieces.

Snarling, Voldemort whipped around to the child. "Revelin!" he barked, in a tone that brooked no argument. "Come with me!"

The boy, whose big eyes kept flicking to the fallen Death Eater, as if they couldn't help themselves, looked much too frightened to disobey. Voldemort jerked him up off the ground and steered him out the front door, his hand clasped like iron on the child's upper arm.

Outside, pandemonium reigned. The entire population of Hogsmeade, plus the thousands of visitors from across Britain, had all converged on the main street in a desperate attempt to flee, but there was no way to escape. For the celebration, anti-Portkey wards and anti-broom wards had been erected all across the village, and the Floo network had been cut off. The minute the first Death Eater appeared, the gates to Hogwarts would have slammed shut. The only escape was through the Apparition Points, from which the Death Eaters had emerged and which they were furiously defending.

That meant the only way to get out of the village was by fighting through his own Death Eaters.

Voldemort's lip curled. That was fine with him. His Death Eaters had betrayed him by coming here tonight. They had best pray they didn't get in hisway.

Jerking roughly on Revelin's arm, Voldemort dove into the crowd, his heart beating fast and furiously in his chest, his claw-like grip on Revelin so tight the child would have bruises later. People were elbowing and shoving each other, some crying in their attempt to escape. Most of the Death Eaters were ahead, occupied with the Aurors and hit wizards attempting to open up the Apparition Points. A few of them zoomed overhead on brought-in brooms, cackling madly. One of them, upon seeing the mess Voldemort had made of their comrade, swooped down, wand pointed threateningly. Voldemort glared death at him, and, as the man opened his mouth, blasted him out of the air and through the upper wall of Zonko's with a single, rage-fueled spell. He fell like a rock through the second floor of the store and into a pile of something that exploded in a mushroom cloud of purple vapor.

Voldemort didn't know which of his Death Eaters he had just killed, didn't _care_, they were all going to suffer, once he got out of the damn village. It was his luck that his Death Eaters were just stupid enough to attack Hogsmeade without his say-so and just intelligent enough to make the place damn well near impossible to escape!

Ahead of him, Dervish and Banges exploded in a roaring fireball, and a witch in black next to it cackled loudly. Voldemort tensed. That had sounded like Bellatrix. But surely _she_ wouldn't be so _stupid _as to…

No, as Voldemort shoved his way little closer, saw the way the masked woman was twirling her wand, it was her all right. Voldemort recognized _that _dueling method. He had trained the woman. Rage so strong it almost blinded him swept through him at the thought that his lieutenant, his most prized servant, was not just taking part in, but _relishing_ this _travesty_—

Voldemort's head spun with rage. He started towards her, intent on cursing her into oblivion, when Revelin cried out in alarm behind him. Voldemort whirled around just in time to see a yellow curse whizz past where the child would have been had he not ducked down.

For the second time that evening, time stood still, as something cold washed over Voldemort, freezing his insides like ice. He felt horrified once more. He had been so focused on revenge, on punishing his Death Eaters for their indiscretion, that he had completely forgotten that he had a five year old child in the middle of a battlefield. His hand trembled. His eyes flicked between Revelin and the swarm of Death Eaters ahead. How he _longed _to torture them until their intestines leaked out through their eyes—But he forced himself to be reasonable. He could do that _later. _He couldn't resurrect Revelin if he died here.

Well, he _could_. But the child would never be the same. Resurrected children never were.

Gritting his teeth, his hate-filled eyes flicking back once more to where his Death Eaters crowed with glee, his head swimming with rage and loathing, he snatched Revelin off the ground. He knew and hated the fact that the best way to get the child out of the village with minimum risk was to defeat his Death Eaters completely. Voldemort could fight a hole through them, no problem, but he didn't want to risk dragging Revelin through at the same time, considering how many of his servants were there. Revelin would either be directly behind him, making him difficult for Voldemort to shield, or Voldemort would have to carry him, which would limit Voldemort's mobility. The best way to keep Revelin safe would be to keep him somewhere safe until Voldemort had managed to defeat these imbeciles.

The realization of what he would have to do made Voldemort's skin crawl.

He would have to help the Order of the Phoenix.

The thought was so utterly unbearable, and it filled him with such revulsion and loathing, that Voldemort wasn't sure if he could do it. Nevertheless, before Voldemort had even fully accepted the idea, his feet were wondering on their own accord a path to a hidden side street, where he had glimpsed several Order members protecting children, including the Potter and Longbottom boys. Before he was even aware of what he was saying, he was telling Revelin, as if in a daze, "Say as little as possible. Don't tell them my true identity. Remember who you are supposed to be. Don't look anyone directly in the eyes."

As a Death Eater swooped overhead, lighting on fire the face-painting stall, Revelin started sobbing. His hands tightened like iron around Voldemort. The acrid smell of paint filled the air. "Don't leave me, Shara! Please don't leave me!"

Voldemort reached the group. Lily Potter extended her arms to take Revelin, seeming to know what Voldemort wanted without him even saying anything. Revelin sobbed even louder—"Don't leave me! _Please!_"—but Voldemort pried him off, his face stoic.

"Remember what I said," was all he told Revelin, as he dropped the boy into Lily Potter's arms—_A mudblood is touching my child, a mudblood is holding my child, a mudblood is rocking my child back and forth—_and turned tail to enter the fray, his wand raised, his eyes cold with fury. Loathing boiled in his veins, making his limbs tremble, his nostrils flare.

The scent of blood and sweat and fear surrounded him, the cacophony of screams and spells and fire was deafening, but he didn't notice it. He moved in a silent world. His blood pounded in his head. All he was aware of was his own feet pounding on the cobblestone path, the consequent jolt up his spine with every step, his arms knocking about as he ploughed past people whose faces and forms were indistinct, his own shallow breathing, and the red tinting the edge of his vision. Whether it came from his own fury or the surrounding fires was hard to tell.

It was as if the world had slowed around him when he saw the first Death Eater: the man, in front of the burning entrance to the Three Broomsticks, turning slowly to face his direction. His cloak was tangled around his ankles. Voldemort leveled his wand, focusing on the Death Eater with cool, focused rage, and blasted the man through the front door of the Three Broomsticks in a shower of glass. Before the two other Death Eaters even had time to turn, Voldemort's arm whipped around, and two curses hit them almost simultaneously, and they fell like stones to the ground.

His Death Eaters stood no chance. Curse after curse chased them, some even whipping around to follow the ones who tried to flee. Voldemort became almost mindless with rage, the fury racing through his veins making his power flow easily. He had only the presence of mind to keep from using the Dark Arts. Everything else was fair game. Voldemort neither knew nor cared how many of his Death Eaters rushed to face him, how many Aurors and Order members stood behind him. The fact that Sirius Black shouted "_Nice one!_" when he blasted three Death Eaters with a single curse only served to enrage him further. He had only two goals, which hovered like a dim awareness in the back of his mind: to make the Death Eaters retreat, and, failing that, prevent them from passing him and getting close to Revelin. It crossed his mind, distantly, when the number of Death Eaters had dwindled and he was no longer shaking with fury, that he was probably also protecting Neville Longbottom and Harry Potter. The irony was not lost on him, and it made him want to kill someone. So he did.

It ended when Bellatrix chose to face him. Upon seeing the deaths of so many of her comrades, she screamed in fury and descended like a black, malevolent tornado before him. "You dare defy us?" she roared, raising her wand high to strike. "_For the Dark Lord!_"

Voldemort snapped.

Bellatrix managed to shoot out a curse at him, which he easily dodged, before Voldemort sent one straight at her. She managed to erect a shield—she had always been a better dueler than the rest of his Death Eaters—but Voldemort overpowered her through sheer strength and rage, his curse bearing down her, licking the edges of her shield, a constant outpouring of green flame. He kept it on her, focusing his power, utterly furious, and her shield wavered, weakened, and disappeared. His curse enveloped her, and she screamed in pain before slamming to the ground, convulsing in the street. The Death Eater nearest her, probably her husband, gazed toward Voldemort—Voldemort raised his wand, his lips curling into a snarl—and the man quickly slung Bellatrix over his shoulder, still convulsing, and dove into the crowd of Death Eaters, running toward the Apparition Point. Wise man.

Voldemort fought a few more, but it was over. One by one, the Death Eaters fled, till at last silence reigned in Hogsmeade. The fires had burnt out. Only embers crackled. The pier of a distant house cracked and tumbled to the ground with a boom like thunder. The remaining, ragged canvases of the stalls fluttered in the sudden breeze. Voldemort suddenly felt empty, hollow, like his purpose for existing had just vanished. He exhaled, lowering his wand. Slowly he turned around. His shoes crackled on the ash coating the street.

When he turned, the first thing he saw was Revelin, about a block back, peering out a shattered store window with an expression of awe on his face. Voldemort was too exhausted to try and dissect the strange sensation that flit through him upon seeing that the boy was okay.

The second thing he saw was about forty grown wizards and witches, a mix of Aurors and Order of the Phoenix members, with expressions on their faces ranging from awe to fear.

And the third thing he saw Albus Dumbledore, his hands folded into a steeple in front of him, his eyes twinkling full blast, staring at Voldemort in supreme interest.

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Please review. The reviews are what encourage me to keep updating. :)


	9. Chapter 9

Just wanted to thank all my reviewers! I appreciate all the kind reviews so much. :)

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When his shara had revealed that he was the most powerful wizard in the world, Revelin hadn't doubted him. His shara was so awfully clever and he could do such fantastic spells!—Revelin couldn't wait to learn some of the things his shara knew!—But still, Revelin hadn't really _understood_. Now he did. His shara could toss scary wizards around like Quidditch balls. It was amazing! Revelin stuck close to the window, watching him greedily. The witch with red hair tried to pry him away, but Revelin refused to budge.

A wizard in a black cloak swooped down in front of his shara, and his shara whipped around, wand raised. His shara hit the dark wizard with a green spell so powerful that it shot him backwards across the street and through a window. As his shara performed the spell, Revelin caught a glimpse of his face, and it made him cringed back a little. His shara looked awfully angry, angrier than Revelin had ever seen him, certainly angrier than his shara had ever been at _him_. Revelin knew the men in black had been bad by attacking without his shara's permission. It was kind of like when Revelin had requested the house elves to buy candy without his shara's permission: Shara had been very angry, but he hadn't thrown Revelin through a window. Revelin didn't understand how what these men in black had done was so much worse, but it obviously was. Revelin tried to imagine what he would have to do to make his shara angry enough to throw him through a window. He couldn't think of anything.

A witch in black appeared before his shara, and Revelin cringed a little bit. He had noticed the witch earlier. She had a laugh that made Revelin think she was quite mad. He also thought she was quite scary. But his shara handled even _her_, no problem. In fact, he hit her with a spell that made her scream. Revelin didn't know how to feel about watching someone else scream, except that he was quite glad it wasn't him screaming.

The dark wizards started fleeing before his shara. Revelin thought they were stupid: They should have run much earlier. It crossed his mind, as the dark wizards ran away in terror, that if his shara was powerful enough to toss wizards around like play-balls, then his shara would probably notice if he tried sneaking into the forbidden section of their library, which Revelin had been considering doing. A glum expression crossed Revelin's face. He was proud of his shara for being so awfully powerful and scary—Take that you stupid Neville boy with the silly surname, who had kept on reassuring the other children that his oh-so-powerful Auror father would take care of You-Know-Who and his evil minions! Like his father stood a chance against Revelin's shara!—but that also meant Revelin couldn't do _anything_ without his shara noticing it!

The last of the dark wizards finally left, and Revelin peered out the window anxiously. His shara appeared a little tired, but no worse for wear. Their eyes met briefly. A funny expression crossed his shara's face, and then his shara started gazing around. Revelin started gazing around, too. Most the wizards—including that Longbottom man—were staring at Revelin's shara in awe. Revelin swelled with pride. Then his gaze fell on the funny wizard, and he frowned.

He had noticed the funny wizard a little earlier, entering the fray near the end of it. He had seemed powerful, this wizard, but not the way his shara was. His appearance reminded Revelin of the gypsies that occasionally came to Marrakech: colorful and flamboyant and with robes that dazzled with little stars. The gypsies would rob a person blind the second they glanced away.

Revelin looked to his shara, to see how his shara reacted to this strange wizard. First his shara appeared surprised, then a little wary. This frightened Revelin. It was rare for his shara to be nervous or wary of anything. They gypsy wizard must be bad. Suddenly Revelin didn't want to be alone in the little store with the funny gypsy wizard outside. The gypsy wizard might be able to hurt him before his shara could help him. Revelin wanted to be close to his shara.

Revelin ran out of the store—the redheaded witch shouted "HEY!" at him as he slipped out the door—and Revelin paused outside, suddenly concerned, as he realized he would have to go _past_ the scary gypsy man to get to his shara. Revelin bit his lip, his eyes darting about the street. No one had said anything yet, which Revelin thought was weird, and his shara was staring at the gypsy man now with a completely blank expression on his face, till, as if sensing Revelin's presence, his eyes flicked over to the side, exactly to where Revelin stood anxiously.

A relieved expression crossed his shara's face, and without saying anything to the gypsy man he brushed past him, heading straight to Revelin. The only loudest sound that could be heard on the entire street was his shara's feet crunching on the ash. Revelin teetered back and forth for a second, anxious as to whether or not his shara would get angry at him for expressing too much emotion, and then remembered he was supposed to be playacting here anyway, and launched himself into his shara's arms, wrapping his arms and legs around him tightly.

His shara was rigid and wooden. Revelin could feel the tension in his chest and arm muscles, and it made him that much more anxious. He didn't like it when he shara was upset about anything. Revelin could tell his shara didn't like this gypsy man.

His shara's head tucked down, close to Revelin's. Revelin could feel his shara's lips near his ear.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, Shara," Revelin whispered, feeling frightened. "Are you all right?"

Revelin didn't have to look at his shara to know that his lips were curving into a smile. "I am fine, child. But I need you to do something for me." His voice lowered to a whisper so quiet that Revelin was sure only he could hear him. "Do not say _anything_ to _anyone_, and _do not_ look the old man in the eyes, no matter what."

It was a bit of an unusual instruction, since his shara was always saying to stand stall, keep your back straight, and to not break your gaze with anybody, but Revelin didn't question it. He was much too anxious to disobey his shara. He nodded against his shara's chest—"Yes, Shara"—and tightened his grip around his shara, burying his face in the crook of his shara's neck.

He wouldn't look in the gypsy man's eyes. He wouldn't look at him at all.

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Voldemort felt himself relax ever so slightly when he felt the child acquiesce to his order. One of the last things he wanted to worry about was Dumbledore plucking his identity out of Revelin's mind. That would be disastrous.

Of course, the whole damn evening had been disastrous from the start. He had decided to bring Revelin here because it was the millennial celebration of the technical Founding of Hogwarts. It was as much Revelin's celebration as anyone else's, if not more so. He and Revelin were the only remaining descendants of any Hogwarts Founder. The Gryffindor and Ravenclaw lines had long been extinct, the Hufflepuff one—his mind flicked to Hepzibah Smith—slightly more recently. The Celebration had been for _him, _for _Revelin_. It had been a celebration of their ancestor's greatness.

Then of course he had come to see the occasion marked by a god-awful ordinariness that made him want to cringe. The 1000th anniversary of Hogwarts' School had been celebrated by a country carnival! That had been bad enough, and it would have guaranteed him a bad mood anyway, and then the candy store had happened, then Arthur Griffiths, then his Death Eaters, and now Albus bloody Dumbledore! It was like everything Voldemort had imagined going wrong with the evening, and then some things he hadn't imagined, happening all at once! The only saving grace was that Revelin was still alive, and thus far, out of Dumbledore's disgusting, muggle-loving hands.

Voldemort would have to be very careful to keep it that way. While he could fight off a slew of Death Eaters and a slew of Order members and Aurors, he couldn't fight off a slew of Order members _and_ Aurors _and _Albus Dumbledore, which is what would happen if Dumbledore got any inkling of who he or Revelin was. Dumbledore would want Revelin, and Voldemort sure as hell wasn't giving the child up without a fight. Dumbledore would hide the boy so cleverly, brainwash him so thoroughly, that Voldemort would never see him again.

The thought made him what to vomit.

Instead, his muscles tense, his heart racing inside of him at the thought of what, exactly, was at stake, Voldemort slowly turned to Dumbledore. The damn man was still staring at him with that look of supreme interest and curiosity, as was half the street.

Keenly aware of how many eyes were on him and Revelin, as well as how undeniably _awkward_ the situation was becoming—really, mudbloods and blood traitors were so _rude_—Voldemort lifted his chin slightly and stared straight into Dumbledore's eyes.

He felt it the instant the man attempted Legilimency on him and encountered walls as tough as steel. Sneering inwardly at how incredibly obvious the attempt was and a little irritated that the old man, after seeing Voldemort's blatant display of power, didn't think to even try to enter his mind stealthily, Voldemort grasped Dumbledore's mental presence and expunged it forcefully. Dumbledore's eyes widened a bit in surprise, and he regarded Voldemort, if possible, all the more curiously, like a strange new species he had never encountered before.

The two regarded each other for a moment more in the silent street before Voldemort said, attempting to appear at the same time both polite and wary, "I would appreciate it if you did not attempt that again, Mr. Dumbledore."

His statement carried across the street, and he heard a few people muttering in confusion, no doubt having no idea what had just happened. Dumbledore didn't appear the least bit nonplussed that Voldemort had indicated he had just done something rude, and instead turned his attention to the mutterers.

"Carry along now!" he said clearly, in a rather irritating jolly voice. "There are injured to take care of, children to get home, and a village to rebuild!"

It was as if everyone remembered themselves all at once, as wizards and witches leapt into action all around them, conversations striking up and coming to a roar, spells and people flying about. Lily Potter started guiding the children out of the store she had hidden them in—"There you go, Ginny dear, there's your mummy…"—and Aurors and hit wizards and all sorts of Ministry personnel began rushing about through the rubble. "You there, take Gladrags Wizardwear and the Post Office—begin searching for survivors. You there, the Hog's Head and Spintwinches…Start cataloguing the bodies and notify the families of the deceased…That right there looks like it could be Richard Green…"

Meanwhile, Voldemort and Dumbledore continued to consider each other, Voldemort warily, Dumbledore thoughtfully. On Voldemort's part, he was still anxious about the whole affair, but he felt marginally better knowing that Dumbledore had sent the others off to work. It meant Dumbledore didn't consider him an immediate threat, which meant that Dumbledore didn't have any idea of who he was.

"You seem to know me," Dumbledore said at last. Revelin's arms tightened around Voldemort nervously. "But I don't recall ever meeting you."

It was a subtle invitation to introduce himself. Voldemort ignored it. "All the world knows who you are, Mr. Dumbledore," he said at last, shifting Revelin slightly in his arms. He wanted to appear more relaxed, even if he was still fully alert. A good wizard with nothing to hide would feel relaxed in front of Dumbledore.

"Please call me Albus," Dumbledore invited.

It was another invitation to introduce himself, one Voldemort couldn't ignore without appearing odd. Well, odder. But Dumbledore had given him an out in this one.

"Please call me Cad," Voldemort said, outwardly polite, but inwardly sneering. It would be harder for Dumbledore to trace down a 'Cad' than a 'Cadmus,' and the nickname was muggle and Gryffindorish enough to throw Dumbledore off a bit.

"It's nice to meet you, Cad," said Dumbledore, his eyes suddenly twinkling. They drifted to Revelin, probably to ask his name also, but something about the way Voldemort's hands tightened around the child protectively must have indicated that that might be a bad idea. Instead he looked up, beamed at Voldemort and suggested, "Perhaps you and I can go to up to the castle and have a chat?"

Voldemort tensed. "Perhaps another time, Mr. Dumbledore," he said, as politely as possible, though he couldn't entirely keep the tight undertone out of his voice. He tilted his head slightly down to Revelin. "I would prefer to get my son home as safely and as quickly as possible."

Dumbledore suddenly looked grave. "Indeed." His eyes flicked down to Revelin, and his face tightened with anger. "Attacking a place with so many children. Voldemort has sunk to a new low." As if to explain himself, he added on, "I didn't expect it. Attacking a Hogwarts celebration. It's not like him."

Voldemort played ignorant. "I don't know about that, Mr. Dumbledore. But I must get going."

"Of course," said Dumbledore. His blue eyes flicked curiously over Voldemort's form once more. "But I do think we should have a chat together, you and I. Perhaps you can meet me up at the castle for tea? Next Wednesday at two o'clock?"

Not bloody likely. "Of course," said Voldemort instead, smiling kindly. "I'll be there. Now, if you'll excuse me…"

"Of course."

Voldemort turned on his heel and strode down the street. His heart was racing inside of him, his arms clutching Revelin tightly. He stepped over the body of the security guard who had checked his and Revelin's papers, barely believing that he was walking away from Albus Dumbledore, that Albus Dumbledore hadn't even suspected for a second who he was, that the Ministry dogs were allowing him to leave the village without so much as asking his name…He strode a little faster to the Apparition Points, his grip on Revelin tightening. It was because they were still in shock, they still didn't understand what had happened, even Dumbledore. Dumbledore hadn't been prepared for someone like Cadmus Ellwood, hadn't seen him coming. That was why he was getting away with this…That was why he was walking away, no one stopping him…Voldemort had to leave now, had to get out of there before Dumbledore changed his mind, before one of the Ministry dogs decided to stop and question the man who had singlehandedly decimated the Death Eaters' forces, before someone in that stupid, idiotic, imbecilic group realized that they didn't even know his full _name!_ Elation rose in him, his nostrils flared with suppressed excitement—he had done it, he had survived, he had escaped, at least momentarily, that great muggle-loving fool Albus Dumbledore—Voldemort entered the Apparition zone and, with his arms tight around Revelin, disapparated with a _crack_.

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Ironically, when they returned to Marrakech, it was precisely Revelin's bedtime. Voldemort glanced at the clock on the wall, then at the child, still clinging tightly to him, and surmised that getting the child into bed at this hour might be nigh on impossible, even for him. Instead, he settled for prying the boy off of him, which was easier said than done.

"Revelin," he said, after a few minutes of effort, "Don't make me spell you off."

"You can't." Revelin's voice was muffled. His face was still buried in the crook of his shara's neck. "My leg is trapping your wand."

Voldemort paused and glanced down. Sure enough, the child's leg was wrapped tightly around his waist precisely where Voldemort needed to plunge his hand to get his wand. He felt a twinge of annoyance followed by amusement. Clever little imp.

But not clever enough. "I can do wandless magic," he threatened, tugging once more at the child's arm.

"You _can't_." Revelin sounded shocked. He loosened his arms and leaned back to stare his shara in the face. "That's impossible!"

Voldemort's arms snapped out and he took advantage of the boy's loosened grip, plucking him off his body just as the child's face screwed up in distress. "No!" he protested, as soon as Voldemort had set him on the floor. The boy immediately latched onto Voldemort's leg.

Voldemort exhaled in exasperation. What was wrong with the child? He had never acted so…childlike before. Was this what parents normally had to deal with? 

"Revelin," he said, starting to lose his patience. Though he was momentarily pleased with his success with Dumbledore, this was not the night for the child to start grating on his nerves. Not by a long-shot. "We are in our house. No one can hurt you here."

The child's grip didn't loosen, and Voldemort closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and clenched his fists. His good mood from fooling Dumbledore completely disappeared. Frustration welled up in him—all he wanted to do was see the child settled safely and then go and torture his Death Eaters into oblivion—but he couldn't do that with Revelin acting so damn strange! _What was wrong with the child?_ His frustration soared up to a new level, and a vase on a nearby table exploded into a million pieces.

Revelin cried out in alarm and cowered down, his hands clutching the pant leg above Voldemort's knee. Voldemort forced down his ire. The effort it took was almost choking. When he felt like he might not murder Revelin accidentally, he glared down at the child.

"Revelin!" he hissed. "What is _wrong?_"

Revelin cowered down so low he was practically sitting on Voldemort's shoe. "I'm _scared!_" he choked out, tears glistening in his eyes. His shifted his arms to wrap them tightly around Voldemort's calves.

"What of, child?" he asked in exasperation. Surely the child knew better than to be afraid of him, or his Death Eaters? He was fairly sure Revelin had seen him put them squarely in their place.

"Of the gypsy man!" Revelin cried out, his arms tightening to the point where they were almost cutting of circulation.

Voldemort opened his mouth to demand who, exactly, the gypsy man was, when it occurred to him. There was only one wizard who Revelin might accurately describe as a gypsy man. Dumbledore.

It was typical that Dumbledore was causing him trouble even here at home. The man's very existence was troublesome.

Voldemort frowned. "The 'gypsy man,'" he said distastefully, "is a wizard named Albus Dumbledore. And though he is a very bad man, and my enemy, you are safe from him here."

Revelin considered his shara fearfully for a moment.

"Do you trust me to take care of you?" Voldemort asked, a bit impatiently.

After a moment of thought, in which the child's mind was no doubt flicking to the battle he had witnessed earlier that day, the boy nodded. Slowly he unwrapped himself from Voldemort's leg, though he stood very close to the man still.

"It's your bedtime," Voldemort informed him, staring down at him, gauging his reaction.

The child seemed to sink a little at his words. "I don't want to go to bed," he said in a small voice.

Voldemort had been afraid of that. He glanced at the clock. His hand curled. It would be strange if he didn't summon his Death Eaters by midnight. It was nine now. "What will it take to get you to bed?" he asked.

The child's chin set stubbornly. "I don't _want _to go to bed."

Voldemort glared down at him, and the child shrunk back immediately. He apparently changed his mind about acting defiant. "Can you stay with me?" he asked instead, in a small voice.

Voldemort paused. Stay with the child? As in, until he went to sleep? His first though was, _absolutely not,_ but then Voldemort glanced back at the clock. His hand curled and uncurled at his side. It would take the child a while to go to sleep… Maybe he could give him a Dreamless Sleep Potion!…No, those were dangerous for children. He glanced at the clock again. Three hours till midnight.

He hoped the child could fall asleep by then. "Very well," he bit out.

Revelin looked relieved.

Voldemort followed the boy as he want to his room, to his bathroom, as he got ready for bed. His eyes flicked critically over the child's bedroom—it was neat as a pin except for his desk, which was filled with a messy pile of books—then over the child himself as he pattered to his bed, dressed in his stock grey pajamas. The child plopped himself down on the bed and curled beneath the covers. He stared at Voldemort.

"Good night, Shara."

Voldemort inclined his head. "Good night, Revelin." He waved his hand, and the lights in the room muted.

Voldemort leaned against the wall next to the door, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes on the child, waiting, impatiently, for the boy to fall asleep. It took a while. The boy tossed and turned, and once or twice Voldemort saw his eyes peek open and fly to his shara, as if to reassure himself the man was there.

Eventually, though, the child's breathing deepened, steadied. Voldemort swept up close to him, to make sure he was asleep. He placed a hand on his forehead, wiped away a strand of hair. Then, uncomfortable with the strange, protective feeling sweeping through him, he left the room.

As he descended the stairs, the face of Cadmus Ellwood twisted and morphed, turning flat and snakelike. And as Cadmus Ellwood disappeared, so too did the feelings of protectiveness. Instead, anger thrummed through him. His eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared. His hand clutched his wand like a claw. He twisted his snake pendant, and with a jolt he was catapulted to Malfoy Manor.

His Death Eaters were about to pay for what they did today.


	10. Chapter 10

One note:

I have had certain reviewers ask about what happens to Revelin's father, and the tone of these questions is generally along the line of, "Did I miss something?" Fear not: You have not. What has happened thus far to Revelin's father is exactly what you have read has happened; that is, absolutely nothing, aside from a year of psychological torture. Revelin's father is living and raising his family as any other man would. Voldemort allows this, because he has a very specific fate in mind for Revelin's father, one which will be revealed later. :)

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It had been almost ten hours since the attack on Hogsmeade, and Albus Dumbledore was beginning to wonder, morbidly, if he was going to need to start planning the funeral of Severus Snape.

He turned his head to gaze out the window—he had a clear view of the front gates—and anxiety tightened his chest as he saw, for the hundredth time in the hour, that Severus's dark form had not appeared.

It had taken him an unusually long time to notice that Severus had been gone for an unusually long time. Voldemort's attack on Hogsmeade, though eventually repelled, had left utter destruction in its wake. Even with an army of Ministry workers and volunteers, Dumbledore had been up till two getting everything in order, ensuring his students were safe—by some bizarre miracle, they had all survived—helping take care of the injured, cataloguing the deceased, and helping to rebuild the town, all the while his mind constantly flicking back to the peculiar wizard who had saved them all. Indeed, Dumbledore had been so distracted that it wasn't until Madam Pomfrey had appeared before him, looking remarkably like an enraged tiger, and ordered him back to Hogwarts for rest, did it occur to Dumbledore that Severus had been gone for an unusually long time.

Dumbledore had spotted Severus leaving the premises shortly before midnight. The man had cast him a significant glance before rushing off to the Apparition Points, which Dumbledore had understood to mean that Severus had been summoned, which, though unfortunate, because it deprived him of a Potions Master in a time when a great many potions were needed, was not unexpected. After the sort of defeat Voldemort had just suffered, it was only to be expected that he would want to punish his Death Eaters.

Dumbledore had expected Severus to be gone an hour, maybe a few minutes more. Voldemort always made his torture excruciating but short, so as not to incapacitate his servants. At two o'clock, Dumbledore began to be concerned. _Voldemort must be unusually angry_. At three o'clock he began to be worried. At four o'clock, he began to worry that, in his rage, Voldemort had killed some of his servants, and Severus had been one of them. The thought made him twist his hands, anxiety blooming in his chest. _He_ had been the one to convince Severus to spy on Voldemort. He had thrust the poor man into that situation.

He glanced out the window. It was a chilly and misty morning. The pale sun cast pink light across the loch, creating long shadows that moved across the lawn and lake outside. A cool, light breeze ruffled the hair of Dumbledore's beard, puffing lightly against his face. His glasses fogged. Still, he daren't closed the window, daren't move, because _what was that he was seeing?_ A tumult of emotions swept through Dumbledore as he peered more closely out the window, and yes, indeed, he was seeing what he thought he was seeing!—The dark figure of Severus Snape had appeared outside of Hogwarts' gates.

Relief so strong it was staggering swept through Dumbledore, and he whipped around, his arms and legs trembling slightly as he rushed out of his office, his aged heart racing inside of him. His knees felt weak. He had truly begun to believe that Severus was dead, but no, he was here, _alive_…A twisting sensation gripped his gut as Dumbledore wondered what horrors the man might have gone through, these past few hours.

He swung open the castle's front doors—they creaked loudly in the silent morning air—and ran down the hill, his feet slipping and sliding in the wet, slippery grass. Severus had already entered the grounds. He was walking to the castle with a slowness and heaviness that alarmed Dumbledore.

"Severus!" he gasped, upon sliding to a stop a few feet in front of his friend. "What happened?"

His blue eyes flicked over the Potions Master's form. The man didn't seem to be suffering the after-effects of the Cruciatius, or indeed, any popular form of physical torture, but something about the unusual whiteness of Severus's face and the way his eyes were fixed on something only he could see, sent a tingle of fear shooting through Dumbledore. Something unusually bad had happened.

"Severus," he said softly, anxiety filling him. He reached out gently and touched Severus's shoulder. Severus didn't look up. His eyes continued to stare blankly at the knoll ahead. "What happened?"

Dumbledore shook him ever so slightly, and slowly, Severus turned haunted eyes to the headmaster. "Albus…" he said hoarsely. Then his voice tapered off as if he didn't know what to say.

"He was angry, wasn't he?" asked Dumbledore quietly. "About the attack failing?"

Severus let out a great, shuddering breath and shook his head quickly. Genuine surprised swept through Dumbledore, derailing his concern momentarily. If Voldemort hadn't been angry about the attack failing, what on Earth had the meeting been about? Severus opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again, still shaking his head. Immediately, worry replaced surprise. It was obvious whatever had happened had been horrific.

"Come along, Severus," said Dumbledore briskly, trying to put a light note in his voice. He wrapped his arm around Severus's shoulder and guided him up the hill to the castle. Severus allowed himself to be led without protest, which alarmed Dumbledore even more. It was a further sign something terrible had happened. "Let's get you to the hospital wing," said Dumbledore.

Severus stopped abruptly, digging his heels into the slick grass and shaking his head quickly. "I don't need to go the hospital wing!" he said stubbornly.

Ah, _there _was the Severus Snape Dumbledore knew. "Severus," he said, a bit relieved to see the man acting like his usual stubborn self. "I really do highly recommend it—"

"_I_ wasn't the one he tortured, Albus!" Severus burst out, sounding suddenly irritated. He shrugged off Dumbledore's hand. His hands clenched ate his sides. He stared at the castle, his nostrils flaring.

Dumbledore was silent for a moment. "Then who was tortured, Severus?" he asked quietly. He wondered if it had Lucius Malfoy, for it to affect Severus so badly. Severus and Lucius were friends.

Severus was silent for a moment, his jaw clenched tightly, his entire body tense. It seemed like he might not say anything, but Dumbledore just waited in silence. The silence seemed to stretch on forever. At last, however, Severus exhaled heavily, and his entire body went limp. He said then, in a clear, emotionless voice, "He killed all of them, Dumbledore. All of them except Bellatrix Lestrange."

A myriad of emotions swept through the headmaster, the strongest of which was surprise and confusion. His quick mind flicked through a hundred different scenarios of what those words could possibly mean, none of which were satisfactory, and at last he suggested quietly, "Perhaps you should explain from the beginning, Severus."

Severus was silent for an agonizingly long moment. "He summoned all of us," he said tightly, his hand curling once more at his side. "All his Death Eaters, all his nonhuman subjects, everyone who acknowledged him as master. There were thousands of us there, multitudes of people in black robes, coating the sides and valley of the loch we were in. He was down there at the bottom of the valley. He had brought before him every one of his servants involved in the attack on Hogsmeade." He was silent for a moment. Dumbledore waited. "Albus…" Severus said slowly, "He didn't authorize the attack on Hogsmeade."

Silence reigned as Dumbledore took a minute to process that information. He was genuinely surprised, yes, but also, at the same time, not. He had been surprised that Voldemort had attacked Hogsmeade in the first place, had thought that something celebrating an accomplishment of his beloved ancestor would be an unlikely target. That Voldemort had not ordered the attack was reassuring in a way: it meant Dumbledore hadn't greatly erred in assessing the Dark Lord. If Dumbledore hadn't greatly erred, it meant Dumbledore's assessment of the man might still be trustworthy. What surprised Dumbledore was that Voldemort's Death Eaters had been both courageous and stupid enough to commit such a large assault in Voldemort's name without Voldemort's permission.

Voldemort's reaction could not have been pleasant. Somewhat dreading the answer, he asked again, his blue eyes serious, "What happened, Severus?"

"He killed them." Severus said it flatly, bluntly, emotionlessly. He was trying to distance himself from the reality of it, Dumbledore realized. "He killed them all, in front of us," Severus continued. "But not before he tortured them to insanity."

Dumbledore felt his stomach twist, as it always did when he heard the horrors his former student committed. Oh how had he not seen Tom Riddle for who he was until it was too late?

"Dumbledore…" Severus's voice wavered slightly. "He's so powerful, Dumbledore…" Doubt lingered in his voice. Doubt that the Light side could win. Dumbledore caught it, and he felt a sort of heaviness on him. "What did he do?" he asked quietly. It would have taken a great feat of magic for Severus to doubt.

Severus swallowed thickly. His fists curled and uncurled at his side. He still wouldn't look at Dumbledore. "He cast a spell on all of us, Dumbledore. Everyone there, and there had been thousands of us. A compulsion spell of some sort. It required our full attention. We could only focus on him torturing them. All we could see was them. All we could hear was their pleas and screams. All we could think about was them—their suffering, their mutilation. We had to pay attention." He closed his eyes briefly. "He tortured them simultaneously, Dumbledore! _Simultaneously. _There had been 22 survivors, not including Bellatrix Lestrange, and he cast the Cruciatus on all of them _at the same time_. I didn't even know it was possible! It was like something inhuman was egging him on, making him more powerful than I've ever seen him! He was beyond furious, beyond enraged—his anger was somehow _primal!_ It didn't end. He just kept on torturing and torturing them, even Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange. First the Cruciatus, then a variety of other curses and _w_e _couldn't stop watching_." There was a note of undisguised horror in the latter part of the statement, and Dumbledore knew Severus was seeing in his mind's eye the torture from the night before replayed over and over again. The man shuddered, closed his eyes, and stilled. When he opened his eyes again, his voice was clearer, softer. "Bellatrix Lestrange is the only one he didn't kill, Albus. She's still too valuable to him, though she's been punished dearly."

"He tortured her?" Dumbledore asked in slight surprise. He couldn't imagine torture being effective on Bellatrix.

Severus gave him a look. "You know as well as I do," he said bitterly, "that the woman is a masochist. She enjoys pain. Physical torture is not a punishment for her. Instead he did something with her mind. Brought her before him. Mental rape, I would call it. She was screaming and crying the whole time. When he released her, she was a mess. She'll never be the same again."

It sounded like a more extreme reaction than even Dumbledore would have expected, all things considered. To kill 22 of his own Death Eaters and severely maim his most devoted one, after already losing so many in the attack, spoke of a sort of rage Dumbledore had never seen in Voldemort, or even anticipated. If he had anticipated that sort of rage at all, it would have been at someone who had tried to attack Voldemort himself.

As if he was thinking along the same lines, Severus added. "I've never seen him like that, Dumbledore. It was almost as if this attack was personal."

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In the end, Voldemort decided not to move. It wasn't an easy decision to come to by any means. In the hours following the attack and his subsequent, sweet revenge on his stupid Death Eaters, he had contemplated seriously the idea of moving Revelin to an isolated cabin in the Andes where few wizards had even heard of Britain, much less that there was a war going on there.

Several factors had contributed to his decision to remain in Morocco. The first that, though his anonymity to both sides had been erased in a truly spectacular fashion, there was little he could do keep Revelin safer than he was now, for while Voldemort could change his appearance at will, Revelin could not, and it would be much too dangerous for Revelin, as a child, to be kept constantly under magical disguise. That meant that wherever they lived, it would have to be in a place where Revelin had little chance of being recognized. Marrakech was as good a place as any for that. The Wizarding neighborhood of Marrakech was unusually insular. Voldemort wouldn't be able to find a community much more isolated, so on that account Revelin was safe there. Besides, Revelin, and to a lesser extent, his 'father,' were familiar faces in Marrakech. To move would be to draw attention, which was undesirable.

Better than running and hiding, which was sure to cast suspicion if they were caught, which they could be if Dumbledore focused all his attention on finding them, was further solidifying the squeaky-clean backgrounds of Cadmus and Revelin Ellwood. In this delicate art of deception and lies, Voldemort was a master. Voldemort, as Cadmus Ellwood, would not run from Dumbledore. Such an action would ensure Dumbledore trying to find him.

Instead, Voldemort was going to try to deceive Dumbledore. It was a risky avenue of action, but less risky in the long term, Voldemort thought, than trying to flee. If he fled from Dumbledore, he had something to hide from Dumbledore. It would surely raise the old man's suspicions, which was very dangerous. If Voldemort met with Dumbledore, however, and successfully deceived him, it would seem as though he had nothing to hide. Dumbledore, then, was less likely to pry into his affairs, and Revelin could continue living in Marrakech unhindered.

But to deceive a man as intelligent as Dumbledore—and it grated Voldemort greatly to have to mentally admit the man _was_ intelligent—Voldemort's story would have to be absolutely airtight. Everything would have to back his story up, for one—financial records, school records, administrative records, _everything,_ would have to pass scrutiny. For another, Voldemort knew he would have to come up with a very good reason for (1) his dueling skills, (2) fleeing England, and (3) his ever-so-slight resemblance to Tom Marvolo Riddle, which Dumbledore was sure to notice eventually.

For the latter three problems, Voldemort had come up with a solution so breathtakingly ingenuous that it didn't even bother him too much to have to reference and claim something so disgraceful. The idea, the brilliance of it, almost made him want to laugh. Dumbledore would be sure to be sympathetic, if Voldemort pulled this off correctly.

But first, Voldemort would need the paper-trail and the modified memories to back it up. Today was Friday. His meeting was Monday. That meant he had three days to cobble together an airtight family history.

He started in northern England, where he tracked to an old manor in the countryside a spinster Muggle woman, whom he spent an entire morning absolutely destroying—in body, and in memory. He erased all records of her existence for the past several decades from every neighbor and every piece of documentation. Then he went and transplanted that same woman to a small muggle city in France called Colmar and created a fictitious family for her, with proof of her existence there in all the muggle records and in the memories of the ancient muggles who lived there. Records and memories were made for each and every member of the woman's invented family.

It was exhausting and ridiculously complex work. It required all of Voldemort's concentration—not only remembering in detail the story he was weaving—but the actual spellwork itself, modifying so many memories and doing it in such a way that even _he _couldn't tell the difference between the real memories and the fake ones. By the time he was done, by Sunday night, both sides of Cadmus Ellwood's lineage could be traced back several generations, and there were people from both Beauxbatons and Gringotts, including Madam Maxine herself, who would be willing to swear up and down that yes, they knew Cadmus Ellwood.

"Yes, I knew Cadmus Ellwood. He was in my Transfiguration class. He helped me with the Theory of Cross-Species Transfiguration…"

"Yes, I knew Cadmus Ellwood. He came to my Christmas party in '77…"

"Yes, I knew Cadmus Ellwood. I attended his wedding to Eleanor Hastings…"

"Yes, I know Cadmus Ellwood, but he liaises most often with the goblins at the Paris branch of Gringotts…"

"Yes, we do business with Cadmus Ellwood. Great curse-breaker. Brought back treasure from Halipani's tomb…"

When he was done modifying others' memories, Voldemort turned inward, creating in his mind an alternate set of memories that, should Dumbledore ever manage to break through his mental shields (highly unlikely), Voldemort would be able to shuffle to the forefront of his mind those memories which supported his supposed background.

All of this work was made that much more difficult by Revelin. Ever since the fateful attack on Hogsmeade, the child seemed determined to not let Voldemort out of his sight, trailing him from room to room like a tiny shadow, apparently terrified of being on his own. Whenever the child caught whiff of the fact that Voldemort was leaving to do memory modifications or document forgeries—and Voldemort wasn't quite sure how the child found out, since Voldemort had started taking steps to avoid that very situation—he would throw a temper tantrum of positively horrific proportions.

The first time it had happened had been the morning after the attack. Voldemort only required two to three hours of sleep a day, so despite staying up most of the night, he was up and eating breakfast by nine. Revelin was with him, only picking at his food, which Voldemort didn't notice, so occupied was he by thoughts of what, exactly, to do about Dumbledore. He had been, in hindsight, blissfully unaware of the horror the child was about to inflict upon him.

Voldemort had made it away from the dining table, no problem, though Revelin did patter after him across the courtyard, and it didn't happen until he was getting ready to portkey away, and had told Revelin, in no uncertain terms, after the child had asked, that he would _not_ be accompanying Voldemort to England. Voldemort had shuddered at the thought—the child's first trip to England was so disastrous the boy would be lucky if he left the house again!

The tantrum that had followed had been both infuriating and worrying in its complete unexpectedness.

The child had screamed at him.

_Screamed_. At _him_.

Voldemort had been so flabbergasted that this little slip of a human being, not even tall enough to reach Voldemort's waist, had the audacity to scream, "I—WANT—TO—GO—WITH—_YOU!_" at _him_ that at first he just stood there, frozen in surprise, as the child scrambled between him and his shelf of portkeys, tucking all the devices behind him as if that would prevent Voldemort from leaving.

Voldemort had tossed him lightly across the room with a spell, his wand shaking in rising anger, his eyes flashing—how _dare _that child speak that way to him!—but as he picked up a portkey and the child launched himself desperately around his feet once more, and fury swelled up in him like an angry dragon, clawing at his chest, making it difficult to breathe, the thought had crossed his mind: _Something is _wrong_ with the child!_

Instantly—the change occurred shockingly and worryingly fast—concern replaced anger. Something _was _wrong with the child. This was unusual behavior for Revelin.

Between tears and screams that left Voldemort's ears ringing, Voldemort slowly gleaned the problem from the boy's mind.

Dumbledore. It _always_ came down to Dumbledore.

It figured that the man was such a curse upon Voldemort's life that he could even make child-rearing difficult! The boy was afraid—not of the Death Eaters, not of the death and destruction that had wracked Hogsmeade, but of the gypsy man: _Dumbledore_. In the child's nightmares Dumbledore burst into the riad like a malevolent, cackling clown, an image Voldemort found amusing, absurd, and disturbing, all at the same time. The irony of the entire situation was not lost on the Dark Lord: children all across the world adored Dumbledore, except for his child, who thought the venerable Light wizard was the boogeyman.

Voldemort rather thought it was a sign that Revelin would be a good judge of people. Still, this comforting thought didn't prevent Voldemort from being absolutely irritated at Revelin's behavior in the days following the Hogsmeade attack. Each time Voldemort left, Revelin had a meltdown of almost impressive proportions, which only made Voldemort's temper shorter and shorter as the days went by.

By the time Monday rolled around, and it was time to meet with Dumbledore, Voldemort rather thought, upon escaping Revelin, that he would be lucky if he could get through this meeting without trying to kill someone.

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Thank you for all the lovely reviews! I appreciate them!


	11. Chapter 11

To my readers:

I am so sorry for taking so long to update. As I mentioned in one of my earlier posts, I have started school again, and the work has really started to catch up with me. I know I said earlier I would try to update every two to three days, but I was hopelessly naïve when I said that. I'm taking a lot harder classes this semester, and I literally have over a thousand pages of nonfiction reading every week, so there's no way I'm going to be able to update as often as I'd like. On light weeks I'll probably be able to update about once a week, but on average it will probably be more like every 1-2 weeks. My impression is that will put me somewhere around average as far as normal updating times go. Sorry for slowing down, but I must graduate if I wish to be able to feed myself in the future. :)

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. It was probably the most difficult to write, even worse than the Voldemort on morality one. I would really appreciate it if you reviewed this chapter especially, since it marks a bit of a turning point.

And thank you so much for the reviews I've gotten already!

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The first time Tom Riddle had seen Hogwarts, he had been overwhelmed with a strange, soaring feeling, the likes of which he had only felt once before in his life—when Dumbledore had come to tell him he was a wizard. Since then, Voldemort had only felt that feeling very occasionally: upon finding out he was a descendant of Salazar Slytherin, upon making himself immortal, and upon gazing down at Revelin for the first time.

The recollection of all these incidents still sent a rush of pleasure through Voldemort. Every time he recalled that he was a descendant of Slytherin, something delightful swelled in him that wasn't as strong as the first time it happened but pleasurable nevertheless. Every time he looked at muggles and thought, _I am a wizard_, every time he remembered his immortality, and every time he looked down at Revelin, an echo of that strange soaring feeling swept through him.

Except with Hogwarts. Hogwarts was the only place that was different. Yes, Voldemort still treasured Hogwarts, and his memories of his time there were some of the few pleasant ones he had, but upon gazing at the castle's visage now, he was met with that same soaring feeling but mixed with revulsion, for now Voldemort could not think of Hogwarts without thinking of the man presiding over it. It was another reason he hated Dumbledore. The man was tainting one of the few things in the world Voldemort treasured.

Voldemort's lip curled as he stared up at the castle. Even now, as his eyes flicked over the soaring towers, the impressive battlements, and the students flying haphazardly around the Quidditch Pitch, he saw also in his mind's eyes the ghost of Dumbledore gazing over it all. It was disgusting.

His gaze fell upon the lawn and then on a small figure in dark maroon striding briskly towards him. Though the figure was too far away to make out distinct features, that stride could only belong to one person: Minerva McGonagall. Immediately Voldemort morphed his expression into a cautious yet polite mask, one typical of someone with the background he had constructed. He waited in silence near the gates, his body tense. The first shoots of adrenaline were rushing through him, as he began to realize just what he was about to do, what was at stake if he failed. He forced himself to control his reactions. It wouldn't do for Dumbledore, or even McGonagall, to suspect something was amiss.

Voldemort had never actually met Minerva McGonagall. She had entered Hogwarts a few years after he had graduated, and he had never faced her in battle. That did not mean he did not know her. Voldemort kept extensive tabs on all people associated with Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix, and his file on Minerva McGonagall was impressively large. He knew everything about the Deputy Headmistress and her family, from what her Animagus transformation looked like to what type of tea her husband, Elphinstone Urquart, preferred (Infusion of Reminquere). He also knew her personality backwards and forwards: She was blindly devoted to Dumbledore and would follow through with his wishes even to her own death, but rather incapable of operating or leading without some sort of guide as to what Dumbledore would have wanted. The woman trusted Dumbledore to do her thinking for her.

Voldemort loathed her for it. It was difficult to keep that loathing under control as she neared him, so hot and vicious was it inside him, clawing for a way out. It took all his concentration to keep his breathing pleasantly even, to keep his muscles from tensing inappropriately, and to keep the blithely polite expression on his face. The part of his brain that wasn't utterly focused on how much he hated her and her stupid, pointy hat worried, distantly, that if this was his reaction to McGonagall, whom he had never met, what would his reaction be like to Dumbledore, whom he had met and loathed beyond imagining?

He didn't get time to ponder it. McGonagall neared him surprisingly quickly, and when she was only a few feet away, stuck out her hand. "You are 'Cad,' I presume?" she asked briskly.

He shook her hand, trying not to cringe, crush her fingers, and draw his wand all at the same time. He could kill her right now, one of Dumbledore's most valued followers, and be out of England before anyone knew any better. For a brief second he was tempted to do it, as suspicion suddenly filled him—what if they suspected who he was, what if this was a trap, what if the school was filled with Aurors and Order members, waiting to overpower him, better to strike now, take out one of Dumbledore's lieutenants, before they could bring him down—but _no_, he was being rash. He must not do things rashly.

Instead he replied. "Yes, I am. And you are Minerva McGonagall, I presume? Head of Gryffindor House?"

She raised an eyebrow. "You have done your research, Mr…?"

"Just call me Cad, for now," he requested politely, falling into step beside her as they strode up to the castle. It was easier to be polite to her when he didn't have to look at her face. But he didn't have to look at her to know she was looking at him suspiciously. It was what he expected. Suspicion was fine—for the right reasons. "I am afraid, professor," he explained somewhat apologetically, "that I am wary around strangers. Such is life in war."

She seemed to concede that point with a slight nod of her head. Still, he could see it ruffled her to not be immediately trusted. Gryffindors. "Still," she said rather pointedly, giving him a sharp look, "We seem not to be strangers, as you know who I am."

Voldemort favored her with a rather wolfish grin. "A point well taken, professor. However, I would argue that knowing who someone is and knowing someone are two different things, hence the reason for my reluctance." As she opened her mouth to say something else, he said quickly, rather smoothly, allowing an amused glint to appear in his eye, "And yes, I do make it a habit to know a lot about the people I might encounter. I am a rather paranoid fellow." She had no idea just _how _paranoid.

She stopped near the entrance of the castle and regarded him rather curiously for a minute. After a moment he saw her relax, a genuine smile flitting across her face. It took all Voldemort had not to smirk, and inwardly he crowed. He had at least temporarily allayed the suspicions of Minerva McGonagall.

It was a delicate game, this play he was playing, this character he was portraying. Cadmus Ellwood would be neither too hostile nor too friendly. Not too hostile, for obvious reasons. Not too friendly, for two rather more complex reasons. For one, as wonderful as an actor as he was, Voldemort was not quite sure he could accurately fake the utter stupidity and Gryffindorishness of the like of James Potter and Frank Longbottom, at least without killing everyone in sight, which would be rather counterproductive. For another, to be so Gryffindorish and Dumbledore to have never heard of him before? Highly suspicious.

But to be flawed, to be human, to be reluctant to get into any fight at all, to put them into a position of earning _his_ trust, rather than _him_ earning _theirs_—that was the way to gain their trust the most quickly.

Still, that didn't mean they wouldn't be curious about him.

"I don't recall ever seeing you at Hogwarts, Mr. Cad," said McGonagall conversationally, as they strode through the Entrance Hall. Voldemort had to squash the pleasant feeling welling up in him upon entering the school once again. It had been over twenty years since he had been there, but the castle was much the same. Even all the pictures were in the same place, and they whispered and stared at him avidly as he strode by.

"That's because I didn't attend Hogwarts," said Voldemort pleasantly, making an effort to look around curiously, like a newcomer ought to. He eyed a portrait of a drunk ballerina, who giggled, winked, and made a rather crude gesture. He resisted the urge to curl his lip. That had always been such a trashy, lascivious picture. He would burn it once he took over the school. "It's quite nice," he added blandly, his eyes still on girl.

McGonagall followed his gaze and flushed a slight pink. "Oh, don't mind her," she said quickly, taking Voldemort's arm and steering him down the hallway. Voldemort's skin crawled where she touched him. He would_ kill_ her one day for taking such liberties. "_Really_, Clotilde!" McGonagall hissed over her shoulder. "Behave yourself!" She rushed Voldemort up a staircase, to a hall where Voldemort knew some of the more boring pictures were housed. "I'm sorry about her," McGonagall apologized to him, a scowl on her face. "I don't know _why_ Albus insists on keeping her!—something about tradition—but we have a great number of pleasant pictures suitable for children in storage!"

"Every place has its quirks," Voldemort allowed politely. Hogwarts had plenty of them. Most were pleasant, but a few—like Gryffindor House—would have to go once he took over.

McGonagall let out a frustrated sigh. "Isn't that true," she muttered under her breath, as they reached the stone gargoyles Voldemort knew led up to the Headmaster's office. Adrenaline rushed through his stomach, filling him with anxiety and loathing, as he realized he was about to face Dumbledore. He had been in so much shock the last time he had faced him, so unprepared to be under Dumbledore's regard, that the reality of it hadn't set in much. But he had had plenty of time to contemplate this meeting, and to Voldemort's self-disgust, he realized he was somewhat, a bit, anxious about it.

He wondered if there was an ambush waiting for him inside.

There wasn't. But there were a lot more people than he would have liked.

He stepped into the room, trying not to wince as the resonance of Light magic from all Dumbledore's tinkling instruments washed over him. Standing not a few feet from the door was the Headmaster, wearing periwinkle robes with glittering gold stripes and stars and a matching jaunty hat, in deep conversation with Kingsley Shacklebolt, a young Auror. Both looked relaxed. In the corner of the room, a huddle of Order members, among them Frank Longbottom, James Potter, and Sirius Black, spoke quietly. A few feet away, Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister for Magic, was chatting quietly with Barty Crouch Sr.. Next to them was a young woman in obscene green robes that Voldemort recognized as a particularly obnoxious new reporter, Rita Skeeter. Just looking at her and her little cameraman lackey made his skin crawl.

It also made his breath hitch. He did _not_ want reporters here. That was totally unexpected. It was also totally inappropriate. He was surprised Dumbledore had allowed it.

Cadmus Ellwood would not tolerate it.

He leveled a sharp gaze on McGonagall. None of the others seemed to have realized he was here yet. "If a reporter is going to be here," he told her flatly, in a voice loud enough to halt the other conversations. About ten pairs of eyes flicked to him, "_I_," he continued, "will not be." And to prove his point, before anyone else had a chance to react, he turned swiftly on his heel, shut the door smartly behind him, and strode down the staircase and down the hall.

Anger bloomed in his chest, making his hands clench at his sides and his eyes flash. This was really most inconvenient, he thought furiously, as he turned down a corridor. It meant Dumbledore was going to put effort into tracking him down now. But he _couldn't _stay there, not with a reporter there, for so, so many reasons. Anger made his hands shake as he strode down a staircase, almost making him lose his reasoning, and he was almost halfway to the exit of the castle when he remembered he shouldn't know his way out of the castle.

"You!" he barked at a small redhead who had just tumbled out of a hidden passageway, the first student he had seen. "How do you get out of this damn place?" He glowered at him.

The little brat looked quite terrified. A glance at his robes explained why: a Hufflepuff. But the child managed to stammer out surprisingly accurate directions and Voldemort turned on his heel and stalked away.

As he reached the Entrance Hall, Dumbledore, McGonagall, Scrimgeour, Crouch, and Skeeter were all waiting for him, Skeeter with a gleeful expression on her face, like she had just stumbled on a good story. Voldemort didn't have to fake the glare he sent their way.

"Mr. Cad—" said Dumbledore immediately, taking a step forward, holding his hands up placatingly.

"I am not talking to a reporter," he said shortly. "That is now what I came here for!" He swept past them and out the front doors of the castle, striding down the steps. He heard them rushing after him.

"Mr. Cad—" That was Scrimgeour. He sounded flabbergasted. "The public is incredibly curious about you! You're a _hero_—"

Voldemort stopped abruptly and whirled around, glaring daggers at the man. "I will be a _dead_ hero," he hissed, "with a _dead_ _son_ if anything about me makes it into the papers!"

Deathly silence fell. The only sound to be heard was Voldemort's heaving chest, his angry breathing. Furious eyes flicked over each face, all of which were stricken, except for Skeeter's, which, if possible, just looked more excited. Seeing their faces, Voldemort felt a sudden sense of satisfaction replacing his anger, and it took some effort to maintain his furious façade. Really, he thought internally, as his cold, reptilian mind flicked over what he had just said, he could use this situation to his advantage. He proceeded to do so.

"I was under the impression," he said quietly, furiously, staring accusingly at Dumbledore, "that I would only be speaking to the headmaster today."

An aggrieved expression crossed Dumbledore's face, and Voldemort inwardly smirked. Dumbledore had messed up—whether by inviting the Minister or allowing him to invite himself—and Dumbledore's failure in this regard put Voldemort in control of this conversation.

"I apologize for the unexpected reception, Mr. Cad," said Dumbledore, looking genuinely contrite. "I am sure you understand, though, that the Ministry is quite concerned about the man who killed 34 Death Eaters."

Voldemort bristled appropriately. "I would think the Ministry would simply be grateful I did so," he growled. "In any case," his eyes flicked to Skeeter, "I fail to see how a reporter is necessary."

"The Ministry is extremely grateful for what you did," Scrimgeour started placatingly. "But—"

"Then why are you trying to kill my son and me," demanded Voldemort flatly, "by bringing a reporter?"

Again silence fell. Scrimgeour looked suddenly uncertain, a rare expression to cross that man's face. Voldemort took advantage of it. "If any newspaper reports about me," he said quietly, his voice reverberating with emotion, "_He _will take an interest in me, and he will hunt me down. Do you understand? He will hunt me down! He will _kill_ me. He will kill _my son_." He turned to face Dumbledore, who looked greatly distressed. "I cannot take that risk," Voldemort continued, his voice trembling, "My son is the only good thing in my life, the only thing I have to live for." He inclined his head shakily. "Good day, Mr. Dumbledore."

He turned on his heel and continued to stride down the steps. It took an effort to maintain his distressed expression, when all he really wanted to do was smirk. _Wait for it…_

"Mr. Cad!"

_Bingo_. Voldemort stopped and turned around slowly. He stared at them expectantly, warily. His eyes wandered over the group. Skeeter was looking like she had just swallowed a sour lemon. He suppressed his smirk. He must have won this round.

"Yes?"

Dumbledore approached him, the expression on his face peculiar, like a mixture between guilt and that jovial, twinkling expression he was known for. Voldemort tried not to laugh. It was so delightful to throw the man off so badly.

"The Minister has…agreed to put a blackout on your story, Mr. Cad, if you feel its publication will put you or your son in danger." His expression turned both apologetic and earnest. "That is the last thing any of us want, I assure you."

The irony of Dumbledore assuring him the last thing he wanted was to put him in danger was not lost on Voldemort. Still, there was a game to be played. Voldemort suppressed his laughter and did his part: he glanced distrustfully back at the others. "I didn't expect the Minister to be here at all," he pointed out.

"Ah." Dumbledore folded his hands into a steeple before him. He suddenly looked awkward. "I am afraid the Minister is quite insistent on being here, Mr. Cad. The Ministry never got your statement after the attack, and you'll find that if you don't speak to then now, they'll be dogging—"

Voldemort had expected that outcome. "Very well," he said shortly, before Dumbledore could explain more. "The Minister and you, then?"

Crouch Sr. and McGonagall opened their mouths to protest, but Scrimgeour, with a rather regarding expression on his face, said quickly, "That sounds acceptable."

It was perhaps the only time Voldemort found himself glad that Scrimgeour was a much more decisive and independent person than the previous Minister. Fudge would have wanted a bunch of advisors in with him before meeting with such a mysterious individual—heck, before meeting with Dumbledore—and nothing would have stayed secret for long. Scrimgeour had a lot more backbone, and the man could (sometimes unfortunately) keep his mouth shut.

"That sounds amenable," said Dumbledore pleasantly. "To my office, then, Mr. Cad?"

Voldemort nodded shortly, and he followed Dumbledore and Scrimgeour back inside the castle. As they went, the three of them silent, 'Cad' outwardly brooding, Voldemort considered the turn of events. This meeting hadn't gone anything like he had expected it to, and yet somehow it had gone as he had hoped, if not better. In fact, his interaction with Dumbledore, though unorthodox, had been ideal. Before 'Cad' even had to start explaining himself, he already had Dumbledore off his game and in the wrong. Voldemort was glad he had decided to construct Cadmus Ellwood's character the way he had; it made everything much more interesting.

They entered the Headmaster's office a short time later, and Dumbledore banished his minions with a few quick words. They weren't entirely happy about it—indeed there was some grumbling—but Dumbledore's rule was absolute. When the last of them had gone, Voldemort gazed rather warily—and pointedly—at the portraits of all the previous headmasters and headmistresses. He flicked out his wand, and though Dumbledore tensed upon seeing it, he did nothing to prevent Voldemort from freezing all the portraits.

"Really now?" Scrimgeour snorted incredulously, settling into a chair. "Afraid of portraits now?"

What an asinine man. Voldemort resisted the urge to curl his lip. "Portraits are an often-overlooked security risk," said Voldemort sharply, settling down into a chair across from Dumbledore. "They are too easily manipulated. There are none in my house."

"Not even of your kid?" asked Scrimgeour in surprise.

"I would rather have my son alive and without a portrait than dead and with one," said Voldemort flatly. Although that wasn't the primary reason there were no pictures. In reality, Voldemort had just never thought of getting Revelin's picture taken.

Scrimgeour snorted again. "Merlin, Dumbledore," he said, flicking his eyes to the headmaster, "He's a bloody Mad-Eye Moody."

Voldemort's lips tightened. Scrimgeour was annoying. He would have to move up on the list of people to be targeted. Determined to ignore the man, he turned to Dumbledore. "What is it that you wanted, Mr. Dumbledore, when you invited me here?"

Dumbledore shifted in his chair. It was the only indication that the man was uncomfortable, that the perhaps the meeting wasn't going quite how he had anticipated. Despite his annoyance with Scrimgeour, Voldemort felt a twinge of glee at the sight.

"I must admit, Mr. …Cad," said Dumbledore hesitantly, his blue eyes meeting Voldemort's. Wisely, he didn't attempt Legilimency. "I thought I had met every Englishman of your…caliber."

"I have made it a point to stay under the radar," said Voldemort stiffly. He paused. "Until now," he amended. Scrimgeour snorted.

Dumbledore steepled his hands. "Yes…" he mused. "And I wonder why that is."

"You are curious about me?" Voldemort's voice hardened. "Mr. Dumbledore, I have tried to avoid people being curious about me all my life. It can get me killed."

"All your life?" Dumbledore echoed, his eyes falling on him sharply.

Voldemort grimaced. He tried it to look like he hadn't meant to make that slip. "I am afraid, Mr. Dumbledore, that you have given me no reason to trust you with my life story."

Silence fell. Dumbledore shifted ever so slightly, the only indication of his uneasiness. Voldemort could well imagine the thoughts and feelings flicking through that muggle-lover's brain. No doubt first, surprise, that someone didn't immediately trust him. He was so unbearably Gryffindorish in that way. Insult would follow. Then, resignation, upon realizing that his interaction with 'Cad' hadn't given 'Cad' any reason to trust him. Finally, uncertainty, because this wasn't how Dumbledore usually interacted with people.

Fate had indeed favored Lord Voldemort. This meeting really couldn't have fallen together more perfectly.

"What can I do, Cad, to earn your trust?"

"Why do you even want it?" Voldemort demanded sharply.

Dumbledore actually _floundered_. Voldemort could very well imagine that no one had ever asked him that question before. Non-Slytherins. It was Scrimgeour who answered.

"Mr.-….Cad, we need to determine that you are not a security threat."

What an utterly moronic thing to say. Voldemort arched an eyebrow. "Obviously I am," he said flatly, "since I single-handedly killed—what was the number? 34?—Death Eaters. What perhaps you mean," he said cuttingly, before Scrimgeour spoke again, "is that you need to determine whether or not I am going to unleash myself on the general populace. I assure you I am not."

Which was perhaps the most bald-faced lie he had ever uttered, but they didn't know that.

"All I want to do," Voldemort continued, "is fade into obscurity and raise my son as safely as possible."

"Voldemort will be after you now," said Dumbledore seriously. Voldemort almost laughed at the irony. "Hiding will be…difficult to do. You will need our help."

"I neither want nor need your help," Voldemort snapped defensively. "I have made appropriate arrangements."

"And we will need more than your word," Scrimgeour added indignantly, "to determine that you are not a threat!"

Merlin, even though this was all a game, a play to be performed, the man still annoyed Voldemort. "And what exactly are you planning to do if you don't get more than that?" Voldemort snapped scathingly. "Arrest me? You can't—I haven't done anything illegal. Under English law, I am allowed to defend myself and my family against Death Eaters, up to the point of death." He sneered. "Are you going to have me followed? I assure you I can lose any tail. The only reason I'm under suspicion is because I'm much more competent than your Aurors—which, incidentally, is another reason I don't want to be under your protection!"

He glared at Scrimgeour. Scrimgeour looked both stunned and angry. "W-well, I-I," he stuttered. "It's just that—you're acting awfully suspicious—and I-"

"What the Minister means to say," Dumbledore interrupted. He had watched the exchange rather carefully and was now eyeing Voldemort curiously, "is that it looks like you have something to hide."

Hook, line, and sinker. Internally Voldemort crowed. Externally, he tensed, his eyes darting anxiously between the Minister and Dumbledore. At last he said, tensely, "If I tell you—what I'm hiding—will you leave me alone?"

Dumbledore inclined his head magnanimously. "If it's nothing illegal, of course."

"It's not," said Voldemort tightly. His eyes flicked to the Minister, then back to Dumbledore. "I will also—" he appeared to debate with himself—"I will require an Unbreakable Vow, that what I am about to say does not leave this room, that you will not tell anyone unless I give you express permission." He thought about it a moment, and then added, "And since I don't trust either of you a whit, I will also require that you swear to not try to hunt down me or my son, nor allow anyone else to do so, upon giving you this inf—"

"Now wait a second!" Scrimgeour interrupted angrily. "If you break the law—"

"I can make that a condition of the vow," said Voldemort quickly, thinking it through. "That if I do break the law, you may have permission to seek me out." He doubted this would be a problem. In the tricky world of linguistics magic, Cadmus Ellwood and Lord Voldemort were two separate people, and Cadmus Ellwood had a squeaky-clean record.

Scrimgeour fell silent, considering. Voldemort knew he had them now. Both were too curious. Voldemort could tell Dumbledore's mind was already whizzing with possibilities as to who 'Cad' could be. He was going to take the bait. Voldemort knew it. How could he not? Voldemort had given the man an out. If he thought 'Cad' was up to no good, he could hunt him down and stop him. And Dumbledore was a man used to keeping secrets. The secrecy clause shouldn't bother him. There was really no reason for Dumbledore not to agree to it—

"I accept your terms," said the headmaster quietly. Voldemort nodded shortly, even as elation swept through him. Dumbledore turned to Scrimgeour. "Rufus?"

"I don't know, Albus," said Scrimgeour hesitantly. "My word's not going to be enough to convince the Aurors—"

"I will back you on it, should it prove necessary."

Scrimgeour fell silent once again, though this time he cast Dumbledore a rather baleful look. They both knew that _Dumbledore's_ word _would _be enough to convince everyone of 'Cad's' trustworthiness.

"Very well," he finally grumbled, though he looked distinctly unhappy. "It's not like I have much of a choice. Let's make the vows."

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

After the vows had been said, the man known as Cad settled back into his chair with obvious reluctance. Dumbledore studied him carefully as he gathered his thoughts.

When 'Cad' had first appeared in his office, only to whip around and storm out, Dumbledore had been at first shocked and then shamed. He hadn't seriously considered the possibility that the reporter might make the man uncomfortable—it had crossed his mind, of course, but Dumbledore had rather thought the man would have expected it; after all, his casting the Death Eaters out of Hogsmeade had been headline news all weekend. But Dumbledore had misjudged him: having seen Cad with a child, and having seen his dueling skills, somehow the impression that had lodged itself in Dumbledore's mind was of a man rather like James Potter or Frank Longbottom, but quieter. But no, this Cad wasn't like them at all. He was more like Severus—good, but not good with people.

Dumbledore suspected that whatever secret Cad had was what had made him this way. He had seen it before with people: secrets that made them unwilling to get close to anybody. It always made Dumbledore so sad to see it, and this Cad's secret must be the most terrible of all, for it was terribly obvious, from his extreme paranoia, that the man had never trusted anyone in his life. Good gracious, an Unbreakable Vow was needed for the man to divulge his full name! Dumbledore had never gone to such lengths to try to get someone to trust him before. The feeling of not being trusted was foreign and it stirred in him the desire, absurd in its suddenness, to make sure that this man, who had obviously been scared all his life, knew that there were people out there who could be _good _and _true_.

"My full name," said the man suddenly, and Dumbledore's eyes fell on him sharply. The man seemed hesitant to even divulge that much, "is Cadmus Ellwood."

Dumbledore immediately searched his brain for anyone else he knew with the surname Ellwood and came up blank. The man, _Cadmus_, went on to answer the unasked question.

"My father came from a family of Wizarding expatriates in France. My mother was an expatriate in France also, but she did not live in the Wizarding community. She was muggleborn, and she lived in Colmar. Her name was Emma." Cadmus twisted his hands in front of him. He stared blankly at a point past Dumbledore's shoulder, apparently reliving a distant memory. "My mother—" he broke off. His voice wavered a bit. His eyes flicked to Dumbledore's, pained, before falling to the ground. A blush tinged his cheeks. "My mother was a bastard child." He raised his eyes, and said, rather fiercely, "But she was a very good woman!" His expression was defiant. He was daring Dumbledore to say otherwise.

Dumbledore supposed he had a reason to. Doing a quick calculation in his head, he realize that at the time Cadmus's mother had been born, a bastard child still would have been a shameful thing, especially in the muggle world. Cadmus had probably gotten lot of grief over it. "I would never," he assured Cadmus quietly, "hold your mother's birth against her."

The man let out a snorting sound Dumbledore construed as disbelief. The sound filled him with inexplicable sadness, as it always did when people who had been judged repeatedly refused to believe it when someone didn't judge them.

"You might hold it against her," Cadmus said warningly, his voice wavering with an emotion somewhere between irony, hysteria, and disgust, "when you find out who exactly she was."

Ah, now they were getting to the crux of the matter. The secret, the thing that had been haunting this man all his life—it had something to do with his mother. Beside Dumbledore Scrimgeour shifted, but Dumbledore just waited patiently. The man would speak when he was ready.

Indeed, after what appeared to be a moment of collecting his thoughts, Cadmus spoke again. "My mother—" the inflection of his voice changed, loathing, longing, and distress all mixed in—what a complex, complex man!—"she searched for the truth of her identity. She wanted to know where she came from, who her father was. My maternal grandmother didn't want to tell her—apparently, he had hurt her horribly somehow, but—" His voice faltered, and a miserable, pained expression crossed his face. "My mother found out anyway. Her father…he was…Mr. Dumbledore…her father was a muggle named…Tom Riddle."

Dumbledore inhaled sharply. Cadmus's eyes flicked up to him. He had a desperate expression on his face, but Dumbledore barely noticed it. His mind was reeling. _Tom Riddle. _Cadmus Ellwood's grandfather was the muggle _Tom Riddle. _That meant Voldemort was—

Merlin, no wonder the man didn't trust anyone!

Everything fell into place all at once, and the shocking suddenness of it all left him dizzy. Dumbledore could barely breathe. It all made horrible, horrible sense. It explained everything so perfectly—the man's peculiar behavior, his reluctance to trust _anyone_—even his appearance!

Dumbledore reeled, and when he finally got over the shock his eyes settled back on Cadmus, and he saw that the man was eyeing him nervously. A sudden surge of pity welled up in him. The poor, poor man! _No wonder_ he didn't trust anyone! Even now, he looked like he was waiting for Dumbledore to whip out his wand and scream, "Avada Kedavra!"

Dumbledore leaned forward across his desk, trying to smile, trying to be gentle, but even as he opened his mouth, his wayward eyes couldn't help but pick up the nose, the line of the mouth, the arch of the eyebrows—why hadn't he recognized the resemblance before?

"I understand," he said earnestly. "And it's alright, Cadmus."

A strange expression crossed the man's face, like he both wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Dumbledore had a feeling no one had ever told that to him.

"I don't understand!" Scrimgeour exclaimed irritably from his side. Dumbledore almost jumped. He had almost forgotten the Minister was there. "What's so important about being related to a muggle named Tom Riddle?"

Cadmus's expression suddenly became very uncertain, and he swallowed nervously as he stared at the Minister. Dumbledore felt a wave of pity. He could tell Cadmus was a strong man, but this was a terrible secret that left him open to the sort of emotional vulnerability he wasn't used to. People had probably thought Cadmus was a monster all his life.

"Tom Riddle," said Dumbledore quietly, turning to the Minister, "was a muggle Lord Voldemort particularly loathed."

Scrimgeour's face scrunched up. "I don't understand," he protested, confusion lacing his voice, "Why would You-Know-Who hate one muggle in particular?"

Dumbledore hesitated in answering—it wasn't his secret to tell—but Cadmus did it for him. In a suddenly tense voice, Cadmus said, "Because that muggle was his father. Lord Voldemort…is a half-blood."

Scrimgeour gaped at him.

Suddenly speaking very quickly, his voice shaking with emotion, Cadmus continued on, "That means I am Lord Voldemort's nephew…through his father's side, who he hates. Voldemort tried to obliterate all members of his father's family, and if he ever found out he was unsuccessful—that there was a member of his father's family still living, someone from his shameful muggle side—he would kill me. And my son. It wouldn't matter to him." He said it as though the thought caused him physical pain. "If he ever found out I was alive, Mr. Dumbledore, Minister,"—his face twisted, his voice thick with misery and shame—"if he ever found out about my son, he would hunt us down and kill us." He choked out, "He'd_ kill_ my son, my child, my baby. He's only five, but he'd kill him!" Cadmus closed his eyes, as if to prevent himself from seeing the mental image, and he shuddered. He opened his eyes again, and they were pained. "I've been trying to hide from him all my life, trying to avoid his attention." He looked up at Dumbledore, and he suddenly appeared very vulnerable. "I've never been able to trust anybody with this. No one would help me, if they found out that Voldemort …is my uncle. And Voldemort himself would certainly kill me, if he knew."

And Dumbledore knew he would. Voldemort had gone to extraordinary lengths to erase his paternal heritage. If he ever found out that someone had escaped his scourge, he would seek to obliterate them with a single-minded fury. He felt a well of pity for the man before him. The poor, poor man. Trapped by his heritage all his life. Marked by death for even existing.

Beside him, Scrimgeour still appeared flabbergasted, but Dumbledore already knew what he had to do. This man had been alone all his life, punished by society for something he had no fault in. He deserved to be accepted somewhere.

And so Dumbledore smiled kindly and leaned forward. "Like is the case with your mother, Cadmus, I don't hold your birth against you."

A tear slid down Cadmus's cheek.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

Voldemort stared at Dumbledore's face, full of pity, and gleeful laughter bubbled up inside him, threatening to burst free. Why had he ever feared this fool's intellect? He wasn't even questioning this trollop! It took all Voldemort's concentration to maintain his pitiable expression when all he wanted to do was cackle madly. But still the laughter bubbled up inside him, reaching his eyes. So while Voldemort laughed on the inside, he cried from laughter on the outside.

Fate favored Lord Voldemort. For as tears of laughter poured down his cheeks, Dumbledore's expression shifted to the benevolent, caring expression he so often wore. "There, there," he said, reaching out and patting Voldemort's hand, "It's all right. I understand."

The tears came a little faster.


	12. Chapter 12

Hey everyone!

I know it's been FOREVER since I updated, and I apologize, especially since my several week absence follows a bunch of reviews praising how fast I update. The irony. The truth is that I'm overwhelmed with schoolwork and have hit a bit of a writer's block for this story. I don't know how often I'll be able to update; it depends a lot on how much work I have to do in school, and since I'm taking 19 hours my update rate will probably be fairly erratic.

Anyway, to atone for going so long without an update, in addition to this chapter I am also posting a side-story oneshot detailing the events leading up to the birth of Revelin's mother. I just thought some people might be interested in it.

Thanks so much for sticking with me!

Elizabeth England

Voldemort reacted to the attack on Hogsmeade and his subsequent visit with Dumbledore by altering Revelin's education schedule. History of Magic, the subject which most often brought the two to Europe, took a less prominent position. It was replaced instead by Astronomy, which, due its nature, could not be studied in Europe at all, for Voldemort could not afford to teach it at night. For one, he held his Death Eater meetings at night. For another, it would completely mess up Revelin's schedule, which would make the child cranky, which would make Voldemort cranky, which make him lose a few Death Eaters. And after the Halloween fiasco, Voldemort couldn't really afford to lose that many more servants, imbeciles though they were.

Thus, since Astronomy could not be studied at night in Marrakech, it had to be studied at night elsewhere, which meant a lot of trips to the Americas, Australia, and East Asia. There was another benefit to these locations, aside from their distance from Europe: they were all in unpopulated areas. Astronomy was best studied away from cities, so when Voldemort took Revelin on field trips out of Morocco, he had the comfort of knowing there wasn't a damn person for miles around. There would be no Death Eaters bursting from the woodworks, no mudbloods trying to hold his child, and no following the little miscreant into crowded candy stores.

Not that Voldemort would ever let Revelin into a candy store again.

Revelin took to these changes somewhat unenthusiastically. His reluctance irritated Voldemort at first, till he understood what it was for. After skimming the child's mind, Voldemort discovered that the five year old found sitting in a cornfield in the middle of Nebraska, staring at the night's sky, somewhat less interesting than visiting the cursed burial grounds of Babylonian kings. Not surprising, but easily rectified: Voldemort simply proposed that, since Revelin found their excursions so boring, perhaps they should just quit leaving the riad for lessons. The child was much more enthusiastic about their trips after that.

Revelin's eagerness to leave the riad was probably heightened by the fact that security around the riad had gotten much more stringent since Voldemort's meeting with Dumbledore. Extra protective magic lay thick over the riad like a layer of dust, so strong it sometimes made it difficult to breathe. For, as elated as Voldemort had been with how his meeting with Dumbledore had gone, he wouldn't put it past the old coot to try and find some loophole in their Unbreakable Vow and exploit it; he half-expected for the headmaster to appear on their doorstep. And though he doubted Dumbledore would start casting Avada Kedavra's upon arrival, since he had so stupidly swallowed the trollop Voldemort had fed him, he would be an unwelcome visitor, homicidal or not.

Mostly the extra security was for Dumbledore, but a small part of it was for Voldemort's Death Eaters. Many of them thirsted for revenge against the man who singlehandedly killed so many of their comrades, even if they weren't witness to the massacre themselves. That had been part of the reason he had killed the Death Eaters who had attacked Hogsmeade that night: they had fought him firsthand, and would have had even more reason revenge. Eliminating them took care of that problem.

Admittedly, though, Bellatrix was probably the most dangerous threat on that front, as zealous and as skilled a duelist as she was. Still, she had been too valuable to simply eliminate. Instead he had raped her mind and ripped his image from its depths, implanting in her horror at the very thought of trying to find the man who had bested her in the duel. Now, a week later, he was quite sure he had put too much power in the mind-ripping spell. She had become unstable. Narcissa had banished her from Malfoy Manor upon finding her dragging the little bratling, Draco, to the dungeons for punishment after he had tripped her in the corridor. While Voldemort, personally, would have rather liked to see Bellatrix's punishment of Draco, he somewhat doubted the snot-nosed little rat would have survived, which wouldn't have bothered him at all if he didn't think Lucius Malfoy would be a total wreck because of it. Lucius was no use to Lord Voldemort when overwhelmed with grief. Besides, Lucius's pathetic weakness towards his son was a weakness Voldemort could exploit, and it would cease to exist should the brat be killed prematurely.

As amusing as that would be.

Despite Bellatrix's unfortunate downhill spiral, Voldemort didn't regret the harsh punishment he had doled out that night. Looking back on it, he felt a distinct rush of pleasure at the memory. He could taste the horror and fear that night, could hear his servants' rapidly beating hearts and shallow breathing. The cacophony of tortured screams and useless pleading had been so satisfying against the backdrop of his utter rage.

And what was even better was that echoes of that tantalizing fear had followed him everywhere this week. All of his Death Eaters were properly cowed. The change was less obvious in his English Death Eaters, with whom he had more contact with and who had been conditioned appropriately to fear him. His foreign servants, especially those from countries he focused less of his energies on, were more deeply affected. It seemed like, in his long absences, that they had forgotten who, exactly, they were serving. The little display Halloween night had reminded them. Their terror practically leaked out of them whenever he visited.

It was a welcome change in America, and to a lesser extent, Australia. He had never particularly liked either country—wizards and witches there were so _irreverent_—so it was particularly pleasing to see his servants there sufficiently cowed. But to make sure the message sunk in, he went ahead and tortured and killed a few of them anyway. It worked marvelously in instilling the appropriate _tone of voice_, and he resolved to be more public and frequent in his displays of brutality in the future.

The week, really, had been a very good one. Monday he had successfully fooled Albus Dumbledore, and Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday had all been marked by a level of competence and fearfulness in his Death Eaters that he hadn't seen in _years_. Even Revelin contributed to his good mood: though the child was unenthusiastic about his Astronomy lessons, he had made up for it by ending his string of throwing temper-tantrums whenever Voldemort left the riad. Voldemort wasn't sure whether or not this was because the child had gotten over his fears or because he had realized the futility of clinging to Voldemort's pant-leg. A part of Voldemort wondered, if the latter part was the case, if Revelin had something else planned. He decided not to question his good fortune. The week was just going too well to worry about such things.

Of course, Pettigrew had to change all of that.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

Voldemort hadn't actually summoned Pettigrew since the little show on Halloween, for the simple reason that he had thought summoning Pettigrew would probably ruin his good mood. Pettigrew had always been the most cowardly of his Death Eaters, and if his braver servants were minor wrecks, Voldemort didn't want to know to what Pettigrew was going to be like. Pettigrew's fear had never been pleasing the way others' was; Voldemort suspected it was because Pettigrew was just pathetic.

Predictably, upon facing Voldemort, Pettigrew blanched and stumbled backwards. The little rat was so contemptible he started hyperventilating even before Voldemort could open his mouth. Voldemort despised him for it. Just seeing his sweating, rat-like form scrambled backwards in a panic made Voldemort's good mood evaporate. Why did the Universe allow pathetic little beings like him to exist? Pettigrew gave wizards a bad name.

"_Wormtail_," started Voldemort warningly.

It did no good. Pettigrew started shaking like a leaf. Voldemort watched him. Oh, he couldn't _wait_ for the day that he could kill the man! Watching him trembling on the floor—truly, he was pathetic to the point of ludicrousness—Voldemort resisted the urge to roll his eyes and turned to Malfoy.

"Lucius," he said, sounding bored, "Go fetch a calming draught from your kitchen. He's useless as he is right now."

Bowing low and looking greatly relieved Voldemort hadn't cursed him, Lucius disappeared out the door. Silence fell in the room as he waited. The only sound was Pettigrew sniffling and twitching on the floor. The man was so terrified Voldemort idly wondered how Pettigrew had built up enough courage to answer his summons. He inwardly sneered. Gryffindor bravery at work, it seemed.

After a minute of waiting in bored silence, watching the little rat humiliating himself on the floor, Voldemort turned to the remaining Death Eaters. There was really no need for them to hear Pettigrew's report. "The rest of you," he said coldly, "Leave. Now."

"Y-yes, m-my l-lord," they stammered, bowing low before disapparating. From his glimpses of their expressions on their faces as they left, they looked practically faint from relief to go.

Soon, it was just Voldemort and Pettigrew in the hall, Pettigrew, aware of their solitude, more terrified than ever, it seemed, and Voldemort, his eyes glittering, watching him in silence. He had always been inexplicably curious about people like Peter Pettigrew. What made them so inconceivably pathetic? What insipid thoughts and convoluted feelings went through them to make them act as they did? How was it possible to be so incredibly stupid? Voldemort had never been able to figure it out, and he was quite sure it was because he couldn't stoop down to their level of thinking. Voldemort trying to understand the thoughts and feelings of people like Pettigrew was like man trying to understand the thoughts and feelings of a worm.

The far door swung open, and Lucius entered swiftly, a vial in his right hand. He approached his master and kissed the hem of his robes. Voldemort took the vial in one hand and clutched his wand tightly in another. He considered cursing Lucius for taking so long, but decided against it for the sake of not wasting _more_ time.

"Leave."

Lucius looked more than happy to do so. He was the ninth person today to leave Voldemort's presence with that expression on his face. The fear this expression entailed normally would have pleased Voldemort, but Pettigrew's pathetic-ness was making everything annoying, and seeing his Death Eaters looking so happy was starting to grate on his nerves. The next person who tried to leave looking happy today was going to get Crucio'd and make _Voldemort _happy.

Without even attempting to address Pettigrew, Voldemort flicked his wand and forced the man, who sputtered and gargled and choked, to swallow the draught. He didn't even try to ask Pettigrew questions. Instead, when the little rat's mind, which had been blank with terror earlier, finally returned to its normal stupid state, Voldemort plunged in.

It was revolting, as always. Pettigrew's mind felt slow and sticky, like it was filled with morass, which would not have honestly surprised Lord Voldemort. The slow movement and poor organization of his thoughts made them difficult to sift through, and Voldemort observed with great disdain four memories of Pettigrew enviously watching James Potter before he came upon ones that were useful to him:

"How did the meeting with Cad go?" Remus Lupin asked James Potter. They were sitting in a kitchen Voldemort didn't recognize, across from each other at a table. Early morning light spilled in front an over-sink window, and despite the premonitions of a beautiful day, both looked worn and drawn, Lupin more so. His hands gripped his coffee mug limply and large bags shadowed his eyes.

James made an odd grunting noise. "How should I know?" he asked morosely, staring down at the table.

Lupin looked up in surprise. "Didn't you go?"

James sighed. "I went. But that didn't mean I met him." He tapped his finger on the table, frowning. "No one met with him except Dumbledore and Scrimgeour. Even Skeeter was expelled."

Lupin arched an eyebrow, a puzzled expression crossing his face. "But…_why?_"

James exhaled heavily. "I don't know. Well, I do. Sort of. Dumbledore can't say much about the man, because he and Scrimgeour made an Unbreakable Vow not to, but he did say this Cad fellow had good reason to be paranoid, or something to that affect."

"Why?" Pettigrew asked, speaking up for the first time. He shuffled away from the doorway, pattering to the sink.

James shrugged. "Dunno, Wormtail. But we all have reason to be paranoid in this war. Could be a number of reasons. It doesn't take much for Voldemort"—Pettigrew and Lupin winced—"to hate you."

"What's Dumbledore planning to do about Cad?" asked Lupin, taking a sip of coffee.

Voldemort's attention sharpened.

"Well," said James awkwardly, shifting backward in his chair. "That's complicated. The Unbreakable Vow also stipulates that neither Dumbledore nor Scrimgeour can seek out or knowingly allow someone to seek out this Cad fellow unless they reasonably suspect him of criminal activity."

"So Dumbledore's just going to forget about the man?" asked Lupin incredulously, arching both eyebrows.

"I didn't say that," said James calmly. "I just said that the situation's complicated. Dumbledore wants to know more about Cad, but since he can't even send the man a letter he has to be very careful. He can't break his vow." A pause. "Technically."

There was another brief pause in which Lupin regarded James with arched eyebrows, obviously waiting for him to elaborate.

James looked aggravated. "I probably shouldn't be telling you this…but Dumbledore's hoping to meet up with him in Diagon Alley."

"Oh?"

'_Oh,' indeed. How did Dumbledore figure that?_

"Yeah. I don't know the specifics of it, but apparently Dumbledore expects the man to make occasional visits to Gringotts for business, and he's hoping Caradoc will run into him on the job. If he does—and he had to be extremely careful on his wording when asking Caradoc this—he wants Caradoc to invite him to lunch or tea or whatever, and have Dumbledore meet up with them wherever they are. That way Dumbledore's not _technically_ seeking this Cad out; rather, Cad is coming to him, and Dumbledore is in the bounds of his oath."

Voldemort felt his mood sink, and, irritated, he jerked himself out of the memory. Pettigrew fell gasping to the ground, and Voldemort glowered. Dumbledore was right. The situation he envisioned was _technically—barely—_in the bounds of the oath. How utterly _annoying_. He truly hated that old coot.

This turn of events was troublesome. He had of course expected Dumbledore to be curious about Cadmus Ellwood, and he had suspected he would try to find some way around the oath, but he hadn't imagined it would happen so quickly. _Trying to meet up with Cadmus Ellwood during the course of his work…_There were no other word for that but just plain _irritating._

It meant that Cadmus Ellwood would have to show up at Gringotts; if he didn't, Dumbledore might begin to suspect him, which meant he would begin to suspect illegality, which meant he could actively seek out Cadmus Ellwood, and that had to be avoided at all costs.

Voldemort would have to face Dumbledore again. The thought sent a twisting sensation through his chest; adrenaline rushed through his veins, making his limbs tremble; butterflies fluttered in his stomach. Anticipation, excitement, anxiety….all these emotions erupted inside him, and it was a few minutes before he could categorize his thoughts appropriately and think about the situation in the objective, logical way he preferred.

So. Dumbledore was going to pursue him. He had expected that. But he had not expected him to pursue him so quickly. That meant Dumbledore was more interested in him that he had anticipated.

But of course he was. Cadmus Ellwood was Voldemort's nephew. Voldemort had expected Dumbledore to be sympathetic, but he had obviously underestimated the effect this sympathy would have on Dumbledore. It was not a surprising failure on his part. After all, he had a difficult time understanding the lesser emotions the Light lived by.

Voldemort had expected Dumbledore to want to fraternize with someone like Cadmus Ellwood. It was one of the reasons he had demanded the oath he did. But he had thought, naively it seemed, that such an oath would discourage Dumbledore from attempting to make contact. After all, it was a pretty clear indication that Cadmus Ellwood wished to have nothing to do with Dumbledore. To _immediately—_without any apparent consideration of doing otherwise—actively seek a way to get around the oath was something he had not expected out of Dumbledore because it was so…rude.

Yes, rude. It seemed like a rather rude thing to do. Voldemort imagined that even if he was not Voldemort and simply Cadmus Ellwood he would be quite annoyed.

And not only was it rude, it was rather…sneaky. Another word Voldemort had never imagined calling Dumbledore. His circumventing the oath was almost…Slytherin. Voldemort's lip curled. Well, well, well—the headmaster was a bit more than sparkling robes and lemon drops, wasn't he? Very well. Two could play that game, and Voldemort was a master at it. He had fooled Dumbledore once; he could certainly fool him twice. Let this Caradoc invite Cadmus Ellwood out for lunch; Lord Voldemort would be eagerly awaiting it.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

It wasn't until Voldemort returned to the riad that remembered the reason he ought to be careful about his meetings with Dumbledore. Revelin was curled up on a lounge in the courtyard, fast asleep, an ancient astronomy text just seconds away from slipping out of his hands and onto the floor. Ink stains dotted his hands, and there was one on the very tip of his nose. Voldemort stared down at the child, his expression inscrutable, as his body shifted from its snake-like visage to that of Cadmus Ellwood.

In his utter contempt for Dumbledore, Voldemort had briefly forgotten that he had created the identity of Cadmus Ellwood to keep Revelin as safe as possible. Therefore he couldn't let his previous success with Dumbledore go to his head. One slip up, and Revelin would be compromised. Dumbledore absolutely could not suspect that Revelin was in any way in the care of Voldemort.

For a brief moment, an image came to him: Dumbledore holding Revelin on his hip, Dumbledore's eyes twinkling, Revelin gazing up at him adoringly the way most children did—and Voldemort was suddenly dizzy with rage and loathing. In his mind Dumbledore called Revelin 'my boy,' and Voldemort felt like he wanted to be sick. He jerked himself away from that image, and as he came to, he realized in shock that his entire body was trembling, his hands were fisted at his sides, and he was breathing harshly and angrily.

_Never, never, never, never, never!_

A murderous rage swept through Voldemort, and he bared his teeth angrily, running his hands agitatedly through his hair. His fingers clenched and unclenched around his scalp. All of his satisfaction from earlier had vanished completely. He was sure there was some way he could use Dumbledore's interest in him to his advantage—but not without some risk to Revelin, and—once more in his mind, Revelin gazed up at Dumbledore adoringly—and Voldemort snarled in fury, whirling away and striding to his library, his hands clenching and unclenching.

_Never, never, never, never, never!_ No, he would not risk it! He would need to find some way to get Dumbledore out of his hair, to satisfy his curiosity. What sort of lies would he have to tell to get Dumbledore to _back off?_ Meddling old fool! The man was such a threat to him in war—it figured that he was such a threat to his family as well!

Family…Voldemort stilled at the word, his anger draining as faint surprise echoed through him. He had never actually thought of Revelin in terms of _family_ before, though, technically, biologically, Voldemort supposed that was what he was. But family was such a light connotation, full of hugging and kissing and stupid Gryffindorishness, and Voldemort's lip curled at the very thought. He didn't like the term _family. _Whatever his relationship to Revelin, it wasn't like those of Light parents and their children. It wasn't like a Light _family_. English needed another term to describe Voldemort's relationship to Revelin, which was so obviously un-family-like, and so superior to Light families, which were trite and trivial and full of disgusting, mushy feelings…Voldemort sneered.

Yes, he was superior to Light wizards in regards to…family—and that included protective measures. Dumbledore wasn't going to transform Revelin into some Gryffindor idiot who would rush into danger at the slightest hint of 'injustice'—whatever that was—because Voldemort wouldn't let him. Really, it was rather shocking to Voldemort that Light families liked having their children around Dumbledore, when he was so good at turning them into Gryffindor fools. It was just further proof of the idiocy and incompetency of Light parents, that they actively raised their children in a way that most guaranteed them getting killed at a young age.

Voldemort wouldn't do that to Revelin. He would grow up as a Slytherin, and he would survive.


	13. Chapter 13

So, this is the shortest chapter yet after my longest break yet, and for that I apologize. I've just gotten out of finals, and as such my brain is resisting the transition from writing essays to writing fiction, and I'm having a bit of a writer's block. Fingers crossed that it clears up sometime soon so I can update more over Winter Break. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy this (pint-sized) chapter!

EE

Somewhere in the utter chaos surrounding the events of Hogsmeade, thoughts of the Sorcerer's Stone had faded from Voldemort's mind. This would be understandable for most wizards, all things considered, but it disturbed Voldemort, for he very much prided himself on being able to comprehend several difficult situations at once. Yet somewhere in the midst of trying to do everything possible to keep Revelin safe—deceiving Dumbledore, hunting down that loathsome wizard from the candy store, and devoting long hours to contemplating the child's general mental health—consideration of the only artifact known to grant eternal youth had vanished. Voldemort wondered if this happened to most parents: concern for the child inadvertently overtaking all other thoughts. It was quite annoying, if it was. He wished he had known it would happen before undertaking this parenting venture.

Still, with most everything settling down—Revelin once more acting normally, Arthur Griffiths now tortured and dead, Voldemort's plan for the upcoming meeting with this Caradoc imbecile firmly in place—Voldemort was free to once more contemplate the multiple uses to which he could put the Stone, some of which were so positively delicious he would shiver upon considering them. Yet as delightful as all of his ideas concerning the Stone were, Voldemort realized, upon intense consideration, that he had another, better idea for it. The problem was that he didn't know what that idea was yet. It was a strange feeling, one that Voldemort didn't feel often: this intense suspicion that he was on the verge of brilliance but was somehow not connecting the pieces, that if he only gave it a bit more thought he would figure it out, and it would change everything. His thoughts flicked between the Stone, Revelin, and his Horcruxes in a never-ending cycle: Stone—Child—Horcruxes—Stone—Child—Horcruxes—Stone—Child—Horcruxes—and he would know he was on the verge of connecting the dots, but no matter how much more he thought about it, he couldn't figure it out.

Whenever Voldemort's thoughts on the matter reached a dead end, frustration so strong he wanted to scream rushed through him, making his arms shake. In the beginning he would often blast things apart in his rage, till one night his Earth-rattling _Reducto _was followed by a frightened little sob. Eyes glowing red, he had whipped his head up from the decimated courtyard to see Revelin cowering against the upper railing, dried tear tracks running down his cheeks.

Fury soared through him. "_What are you doing up so late?_" he had hissed menacingly. He gripped his wand tightly. The child should long be in bed!

Revelin burst into tears, his face screwing up in misery. "I-I w-was t-trying t-to s-sleep a-and I-I f-felt th-the g-ground sh-shaking a-and I-I th-thought i-it w-was a-n _e-earthquake!_" He choked on tears, barely understandable. "I just r-read about e-earthquakes i-in C-Carson's G-Geology and I w-was _a-afraid!_"

Bemusement quickly replaced anger, and Voldemort suddenly could think of nothing else to say but, rather blankly, "You're supposed to drop, cover, and hold on when an earthquake hits."

Which had just made Revelin cry even harder.

It took him an hour to get the child back in bed, and by the end of it Voldemort's nerves were on end and he was promising himself over and over again to never again lose his temper where Revelin might see him. The child's fear was bad enough, but the tears were practically intolerable. It was the second time in a month that he had made Revelin cry, and the fact that he had done so filled Voldemort with a strange sinking feeling, like he was doing everything wrong. Which he knew was silly, because it was impossible for him to be wrong, but _still_.

Since then, he had been much more careful about controlling his temper, but the issue of what to do with the Sorcerer's Stone still haunted him, which was silly whenever he considered that he wasn't a speck closer to finding it.

Emmeline Vance and Dorcas Meadows had vanished from the face of the Earth. Voldemort had no doubt they had gone into hiding because of the spy, and normally he would have used his own spies to try and ascertain their whereabouts, but Wormtail couldn't be entrusted with that information and Severus, well…Voldemort was beginning to suspect _Severus_ might be the spy.

He didn't want to, for sure. Severus was one of his most competent Death Eaters, a brilliant Potions Master, right next to Dumbledore…but that was also what made it more likely he was a spy. Because a spy who had successfully deceived him would have to be incredibly clever…and the man's proximity to Dumbledore…_Impossible t_o watch his actions there…And, as far as motive…Voldemort was not blind to Severus's affections for the Potter mudblood…but he had never thought it was so strong…

Severus Snape. Voldemort's lip curled. He was no longer sure he could trust the information of Severus Snape.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

The letter caught Voldemort off-guard in that he hadn't expected it for another six years. The owl fluttered down into the riad around midday, causing Voldemort to whip out his wand and eye it warily as it alighted on the edge of the fountain. It was a beautiful bird, golden and exotic-looking. Attached its claw was a yellowed piece of parchment, which Voldemort only took after casting a couple dozen curse-detection charms.

The letter was addressed to "Mr. Cadmus Ellwood, Re: Revelin Ellwood," from the Sahara School of Magic, and he stared at it dumbly for a moment before opening it. Why in Merlin's beard was Revelin's school contacting him _now?_ The child was only five!

And speak of the devil—"Is that an _owl?"_

Voldemort glanced up to see Revelin peering down at him from the second-floor railing, his eyes shining with excitement. "We've _never _gotten an owl before!" He ran down the narrow stairs and pattered over, eyeing the owl in wide-eyed wonderment before turning to Voldemort. "Who is it from, Shara? What does it say?" He clutched Voldemort's pant-leg.

Voldemort was a bit amused by the reaction and lowered his gaze to the letter, reading it quickly. His brow furrowed, first in surprise, then in confusion. He felt a faint thrumming in his chest, like a bird or butterfly fluttering within. It was the sensation he got whenever someone pulled a trick he didn't expect. He didn't like it.

Revelin tugged on his pant-leg. "Can I read it, Shara? It has my name on it!"

"Hmm," said Voldemort noncommittally, folding the letter and placing it in the inner pocket of his robe. He had much to think about. "Not right now."

An ominous silence followed. Voldemort didn't glance down, but he could well imagine the shocked, then stubborn expressing crossing the child's face. He waited a moment, certain of Revelin's reaction, and bit back a smile of anticipation. Predictably, a few seconds later, Revelin's arms tightened around Voldemort's leg, and he felt both sides of the child's knees brace his calf as the boy prepared to sit stubbornly on Voldemort's foot and keep him from moving anywhere: his favorite protest tactic. A second later, Revelin slid down—then yelped and scrambled away, rubbing his behind and staring at his shara with a betrayed expression on his face. "That _hurt!_" he exclaimed, sounding rather shocked.

"It was only a mild sting," said Voldemort, amused. "And you'll remember it the next time you try that, _won't you, child?_" The last part was added rather warningly.

Revelin suddenly looked so mutinous that Voldemort had to bite back a grin as he turned his back and headed to the library.

"I want to read the letter!" Revelin protested stubbornly as Voldemort stepped through the doorway.

He glanced back. Revelin was standing next to the fountain, still looking mutinous and like he very much wanted to chase after his shara. The pain in his behind, however, kept him wisely in place. After a moment his expression collapsed from mutinous to pure misery, and Voldemort felt his lips quirk up. "We'll discuss it over dinner," he promised Revelin, and watched in amusement as the child's countenance immediately brightened.

"Thanks, Shara!" he hissed in excitement, before running back off upstairs. Voldemort noted that he ran with a slight limp.

Hmm. Perhaps that Stinging Hex _had_ been too strong.

AAAA—Page Break—AAAA

Voldemort had a good reason for not wishing to disclose the contents of the letter to Revelin, and that was precisely because he had no idea what he wanted to do about it yet. He had thought he would have several years to adequately prepare Revelin for something like this, and as such he was feeling a little out of his element, a feeling he deeply loathed.

The letter had been an invitation to the school's program for gifted children. Much like the names of magical children were written down for each new school year, so also were the names of exceptionally gifted younger children, apparently. The school directors were inviting him, Voldemort, or more specifically, Cadmus Ellwood, to an orientation for other prospective parents about the benefits of the program.

It intrigued Voldemort for a number of reasons and presented a multitude of problems for a number of others. It could be good: the program was probably prestigious, he would have Revelin off his hands for several hours a day, and Revelin would learn more quickly to appreciate that no one else was nearly as gifted as he. It was also problematic, for what if Revelin became bored, or the education didn't meet Voldemort's standards, or worse, what if by some quirk of fate, he actually _made friends?_ After all, Voldemort had yet to completely instill in him the dangers of friendship.

But what was even more interesting about the letter, aside from its content, was the fact that it came at all, because that meant the Sahara School of Magic was capable of tracking very young wizards, even through the enchanted walls of Voldemort's riad. He hadn't known it was possible. Magical trackers, such as Hogwarts', generally couldn't pick up children younger than eleven. It wasn't just because younger children weren't as powerful as older children—if that was the case, extremely powerful children might get sent their Hogwarts letters at 7, or 8, or 10, depending on how powerful they were—it was that their magic manifested itself differently. Magic changed with age, constantly morphing and changing its frequency, till about eleven when it stabilized to more closely resemble adult magic, though each person's magic would always retain its unique flair. That the Sahara School of Magic had developed a way of tracking not only underage magic users, but the potential of underage magic users was…intriguing. Perhaps useful. After all, it might be able to be modified. If it could be used to track specific types of people—5 year old witches and wizards of a certain power level or above—then might it also be modified to track even more specific types of people, like Emmeline Vance or Dorcas Meadows, for example?

Hmm. He would have to investigate it. It couldn't hurt. Voldemort whipped out a quill and a piece of parchment and quickly penned his acceptance of his invitation to the prospective parents meeting.

If nothing else came of it, then at least Revelin would be happy about spending an afternoon outside the riad.


End file.
